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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


IMAGINATION  AND  FANCY 


OR 


SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  ENGLISH  POETS, 


JHlustratfbe  of  tjiose  jjfrst  3?rqufsftes  of  tljefr  &rt; 


WITH  MARKINGS  OF  THE  BEST  PASSAGES,  CRITICAL  NOTICES 
OP  THE  WRITERS, 


AND  AN  ESSAY  IN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

"WHAT  IS  POETRY?" 

BY 

LEIGH   HUNT. 

NEW   EDITION,    COMPLETE    IN    ONE   VOLUME. 


NEW  YORK: 
GEORGE  P.   PUTNAM,    155   BROADWAY. 

1848. 

-  .        . 


.    .      - 


•    •        •         -  -  . 


ft 


CONTENTS. 


■ 


Page 

PREFACE  ...  iii. 

|  AN  ANSWEB  TO  THE  QUESTION,  "WHAT  IS  POETEY  V  .  .        1 

SELECTIONS  FROM  SPENSER,  WITH  CRITICAL  NOTICE  .  .     49 

ARCHIMAGO'S    HERMITAGE    AND   THE    HOUSE    OF    MORPHEUS  .      54 

THE    CAVE    OF   MAMMtJf    AND    GARDEN    OF    PROSERPINE  .  .      62 

A    GALLERY    OF    PICTURES    FROM    SPENSER        ...  .72 

(Spenser  considered  as  the  Poet  of  the  Painters.) 

CHARISSA,    OR    CHARITY    ...                         77 

HOPE              ...                         78 

CUPID    USURPING    THE    THRONE    OF   JUPITER  .  .  .  .78 

£&MARRIAGE    PROCESSION    OF   THE    THAMES    AND   MEBWAY        .            .  79 

CJSSIR    GUYON    BINDING   FUROR .            .  80 

UNA,    OR    FAITH    IN    DISTRESS               .......  80 

OS  JUPITER    AND    MAIA 82 

^r,  NIGHT   AND    THE    WITCH    DUESSA 83 

3  VENUS   IN    SEARCH    OF   CUPID,    COMING    TO   DIANA  .  .  .85 

MAY 86 

AN    ANGEL   WITH    A    PILGRIM    AND    A    FAINTING    KNIGHT       .            .  87 

AURORA    AND    TITHONUS                ........  88 

THE    BRIDE    AT    THE    ALTAR 89 

A    NYMPH    BATHING .89 

E    CAVE    OF   DESPAIR                  90 

A    KNIGHT   IN    BRIGHT    ARMOR,    LOOKING    INTO    A   CAVE           .            .  91 

MALBECCO    SEES    HELLENORE    DANCING  WITH    THE    SATYRS                .  92 
LANDSCAPE,   WITH    DAMSELS   CONVEYING  A  WOUNDED  SQUIRE  ON 

HIS    HORSE                           93 

THE    NYMPHS    AND   GRACES     DANCING   TO    A     SHEPHERD'S     PIPE; 

OR,    APOTHEOSIS    OF    A    POET'S    MISTRESS               ...  93 

I  27 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


A    PLUME    OF    FEATHERS    AND    AN    ALMOND   TREE 
ENCHANTED    MUSIC 


SELECTIONS    FROM    MARLOWE,    WITH    CRITICAL    NOTICE 
the  jew  of  Malta's  idea  of  wealth 
a  vision  of  helen         .... 
mythology  and  court  amusements 
beauty  beyond  expression 
the  passionate  shepherd  to  his  love 

SELECTIONS    FROM    SHAKSPEARE    AVITH    CRITICAL    NOTICE 

WHOLE    STORY    OF    THE    TEMPEST 

MACBETH    AND   THE    WITCHES 

THE    QUARREL    OF   OBERON    AND   TITANIA 

THE    BRIDAL    HOUSE    BLESSED    BY    THE    FAIRIES 

LOVERS    AND    MUSIC  ..... 

ANTONY    AND    THE    CLOUDS         .... 

YOUNG    WARRIORS      ...... 

IMOGEN    IN    BED  ...... 

SELECTIONS    FROM    BEN    JONSON,    WITH    CRITICAL    NOTICE 

TO    CYNTHIA  ;    THE    MOON  ...... 

THE    LOVE-MAKING    OF    LUXURY 


Page 
.  95 

.  96 

.  97 
.  100 
.  102 
103 
.  103 
.  104 


•  100 

.  108 

.  116 

.  121 

,  130 

.  131 

.  136 

.  137 

.  138 

.  140 
.  142 
.  142 


TOWERING    SENSUALITY 143 

THE    WITCH 145 

A    MEETING  OF   WITCHES 146 

A    CATCH    OF    SATYR3 148 


SELECTIONS    FROM    BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER,  WITH  CRITICAL 

NOTICE •    150 

MELANCHOLY ...  152 

A    SATYR     PRESENTS  A     BASKET   OF   FRUIT    TO    THE    FAITHFUL 

SHEPHERDESS        ..........    153 

A    SPOT    FOR    LOVE    TALES 155 

MORNING 155 

THE    POWER    OF    LOVE  .  .......    156 

INVOCATION    TO    SLEEP 157 

SELECTIONS    FROM    MIDDLETON,    DECKER,    AND    WEBSTER,  WITH 

CRITICAL    NOTICE 15S 

FLIGHT   OF    WITCHES  .162 


CONTENTS.  t 


Page. 

THE    CHRISTIAN    LADY    AND    THE    ANGEL  ....  164 

LADIES    DANCING        ..........  166 

APRIL    AND   WOMEN'S   TEARS  ,  ...  167 

DEATH         .  167 

PATIENCE  *  167 

A    WICKED    DREAM  ........  168 

NATURAL   DEATH       ....  169 

FUNERAL   DIRGE 170 

DISSIMULATION 170 

BEAUTEOUS    MORAL   EXAMPLE 171 

UNLOVELINESS    OF    FROWNING  .......  171 

SELECTIONS    FROM    MILTON,  WITH    CRITICAL    NOTICE    .  .  .   172 

SATAN'S    RECOVERY    FROM   HIS    DOWNFALL 174 

THE    FALLEN    ANGELS    GATHERED    AGAIN    TO    WAR  .  .  .175 

VULCAN         ...  177 

THE    FALLEN    ANGELS    HEARD    RISING    FROM   COUNCIL  .  .    177 

SATAN    ON    THE    WING    FOR    EARTH  .  .  .  .  .  .178 

THE    MEETING    OF    SATAN    AND    DEATH  .....    178 

L' ALLEGRO 180 

IL   PENSEROSO 186 

LYCIDAS 191 

COM  US    THE    SORCERER       .........    199 

SELECTIONS    FROM    COLERIDGE,    WITH    CRITICAL    NOTICE  .   202 

LOVE  ;    OR,    GENEVIEVE  ......  .  207 

KUBLA    KHAN 210 

YOUTH    AND    AGE       .  .  - 212 

THE  HEATHEN    DIVINITIES    MERGED    INTO    ASTROLOGY  .  .    213 

WORK    WITHOUT    HOPE        .........    214 

SELECTIONS    FROM    SHELLEY,    WITH    CRITICAL    NOTICE  .  .  215 

TO    A    SKYLARK 218 

A    GARISH    DAY 223 

CONTEMPLATION    OF    VIOLENCE 224 

A    ROCK    AND    CHASM 224 

LOVELINESS    INEXPRESSIBLE      ........  225 

EXISTENCE    IN    SPACE  . 225 

DEVOTEDNESS    UNREQUIRING 225 


vi  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

TO   A    LADY    WITH    A    GUITAR 226 

MUSIC,    MEMORY,    AND    LOVE  . 229 

SELECTIONS    FROM    KEATS,  WITH    CRITICAL    NOTICE       .  .  .  230 

THE    EVE    OF    ST.  AGNES 233 

LONELY    SOUNDS ...  249 

ORION 249 

CIRCE    AND   HER    VICTIMS 249 

A  BETTER  ENCHANTRESS  IMPRISONED   IN    THE  SHAPE   OF  A  SER- 
PENT   250 

SATURN    DETHRONED 250 

THE    VOICE    OF    A   MELANCHOLY    GODDESS    SPEAKING   TO   SATURN.    251 

A    FALLEN  GOD 251 

OTHER    TITANS    FALLEN  .  ....    251 

ODE    TO    A    NIGHTINGALE  ....  ...    252 

SONNET   ON    FIRST    LOOKING    INTO    CHAPMAN'S    HOMER  .  .    254 


PREFACE 


This  book  is  intended  for  all  lovers  of  poetry  and  the  sis- 
ter arts,  but  more  especially  for  those  of  the  most  poetical 
sort,  and  most  especially  for  the  youngest  and  the  oldest : 
for  as  the  former  may  incline  to  it  for  information's  sake, 
the  latter  will  perhaps  not  refuse  it  their  good-will  for  the 
sake  of  old  favorites.  The  Editor  has  often  wished  for 
such  a  book  himself;  and  as  nobody  will  make  it  for  him, 
he  has  made  it  for  others. 

It  was  suggested  by  the  approbation  which  the  readers 
of  a  periodical  work  bestowed  on  some  extracts  from  the 
poets,  commented,  and  marked  with  italics,  on  a  principle 
of  co-perusal,  as  though  the  Editor  were  reading  the  pas- 
sages in  their  company.  Those  readers  wished  to  have 
more  such  extracts  ;  and  here,  if  they  are  still  in  the  mind, 
they  now  possess  them.  The  remarks  on  one  of  the 
poems  that  formed  a  portion  of  the  extracts  (the  Eve  of 
Saint  Agnes),  are  repeated  in  the  present  volume.  All  the 
rest  of  the  matter  contributed  by  him  is  new.  He  does  not 
expect,  of  course,  that  every  reader  will  agree  with  the 
preferences  of  particular  lines  or  passages,  intimated  by 
the  italics.  Some  will  think  them  too  numerous  ;  sc  me 
perhaps  too  few ;  many  who  chance  to  take  up  the  book, 
may  wish  there  had  been  none  at  all ;  but  these  will  have 


viii  PREFACE. 


the  goodness  to  recollect  what  has  just  been  stated, — that 
the  plan  was  suggested  by  others  who  desired  them.  The 
Editor,  at  any  rate,  begs  to  be  considered  as  having  mark- 
ed the  passages  in  no  spirit  of  dictation  to  any  one,  much 
less  of  disparagement  to  all  the  admirable  passages  not 
marked.  If  he  assumed  anything  at  all  (beyond  what  is 
implied  in  the  fact  of  imparting  experience),  it  was  the  pro- 
bable mutual  pleasure  of  the  reader,  his  companion ;  just 
as  in  reading  out-loud,  one  instinctively  increases  one's  em- 
phasis here  and  there,  and  implies  a  certain  accordance  of 
enjoyment  on  the  part  of  the  hearers.  In  short,  all  poetic 
readers  are  expected  to  have  a  more  than  ordinary  portion 
of  sympathy,  especially  with  those  who  take  pains  to 
please  them ;  and  the  Editor  desires  no  larger  amount  of 
it,  than  he  gratefully  gives  to  any  friend  who  is  good  enough 
to  read  out  similar  passages  to  himself. 

The  object  of  the  book  is  threefold  ; — to  present  the 
public  with  some  of  the  finest  passages  in  English  poetry, 
50  marked  and  commented ; — to  furnish  such  an  account, 
in  an  Essay,  of  the  nature  and  requirements  of  poetry,  as 
may  enable  readers  in  general  to  give  an  answer  on  those 
points  to  themselves  and  others  ; — and  to  show,  throughout 
the  greater  part  of  the  volume,  what  sort  of  poetry  is  to 
be  considered  as  poetry  of  the  most  poetical  kind,  or  such 
as  exhibits  the  imagination  and  fancy  in  a  state  of  pre- 
dominance, undisputed  by  interests  of  another  sort.  Poe- 
try, therefore,  is  not  here  in  its  compound  state,  great  or 
otherwise  (except  incidentally  in  the  Essay),  but  in  its  ele- 
ment, like  an  essence  distilled.  All  the  greatest  poetry  in- 
cludes that  essence,  but  the  essence  does  not  present  itself 
in  exclusive  combination  with  the  greatest  form  of  poetry. 
It  varies  in  that  respect  from  the  most  tremendous  to  the 


PREFACE.  ix 


most  playful  effusions,  and  from  imagination  to  fancy 
through  all  their  degrees ; — from  Homer  and  Dante,  to 
Coleridge  and  Keats  ; — from  Shakspeare  in  King  Lear,  to 
Shakspeare  himself  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream; 
from  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene,  to  the  Castle  of  Indolence  ; 
nay,  from  Ariel  in  the  Tempest,  to  his  somewhat  pre- 
sumptuous namesake  in  the  Rape  of  the  Lock.  And  pas- 
sages, both  from  Thomson's  delightful  allegory,  and  Pope's 
paragon  of  mock-heroics,  would  have  been  found  in  this 
volume,  but  for  that  intentional,  artificial  imitation,  even  in 
the  former,  which  removes  them  at  too  great  a  distance 
from  the  highest  sources  of  inspiration. 

With  the  great  poet  of  the  Faerie  Queene  the  Editor  has 
taken  special  pains  to  make  readers  in  general  better  ac- 
quainted ;  and  in  furtherance  of  this  purpose  he  has  ex- 
hibited many  of  his  best  passages  in  remarkable  relation 
to  the  art  of  the  Painter. 

For  obvious  reasons  no  living  writer  is  included ;  and 
some,  lately  deceased,  do  not  come  within  the  plan.  The 
omission  will  not  be  thought  invidious  in  an  Editor,  who 
has  said  more  of  his  contemporaries  than  most  men ;  and 
who  would  gladly  give  specimens  of  the  latter  poets  in 
future  volumes. 

One  of  the  objects  indeed  of  this  preface  is  to  state,  that 
should  the  Public  evince  a  willingness  to  have  more  such 
books,  the  Editor  would  propose  to  give  them,  in  succes- 
sion, corresponding  volumes  of  the  Poetry  of  Action  and 
Passion  (Narrative  ana  Dramatic  Poetry),  from  Chaucer 
to  Campbell  (here  mentioned  because  he  is  the  latest  de- 
ceased poet) ;  the  Poetry  of  Contemplation,  from  Surrey 
to  Campbell ; — the  Poetry  of  Wit  and  Humor,  from  Chau- 
cer to  Byron  ;  and  the  Poetry  of  Song,  or  Lyrical  Poetry, 


PREFACE. 


from  Chaucer  again  (see  in  his  Works  his  admirable  and 
only  song,  beginning 

Hide,  Absalom,  thy  gilded  tresses  clear), 

to  Campbell  again,  and  Burns,  and  O'Keefe.  These  vo» 
lumes,  if  he  is  not  mistaken,  would  present  the  Public  with 
the  only  selection,  hitherto  made,  of  none  but  genuine  poe- 
try ;  and  he  would  take  care,  that  it  should  be  unobjection- 
able in  every  other  respect.* 

Kensington,  Sept.  10,  1844. 

*  While  closing  the  Essay  on  Poetry,  a  friend  lent  me  Coleridge's  Bio* 
graphia  Literaria,  which  I  had  not  seen  for  many  years,  and  which  I 
mention,  partly  to  notice  a  coincidence  at  page  31  of  the  Essay,  not  other- 
wise worth  observation ;  and  partly  to  do  what  I  can  towards  extending  the 
acquaintance  of  the  public  with  a  book  containing  masterly  expositions  of 
.he  art  of  poetry. 


AN   ANSWER   TO   THE   QUESTION 

WHAT  IS  POETRY? 


INCLUDING 


REMARKS  ON  VERSIFICATION. 


Poetry,  strictly  and  artistically  so  called,  that  is  to  say,  con- 
sidered not  merely  as  poetic  feeling,  which  is  more  or  less 
shared  by  all  the  world,  but  as  the  operation  of  that  feeling, 
such  as  we  see  it  in  the  poet's  book,  is  the  utterance  of  a  pas- 
sion for  truth,  beauty  and  power,  embodying  and  illustrating  its 
conceptions  by  imagination  and  fancy,  and  modulating  its  lan- 
guage on  the  principle  of  variety  in  uniformity.  Its  means 
are  whatever  the  universe  contains ;  and  its  ends,  pleasure  and 
exaltation.  Poetry  stands  between  nature  and  convention, 
keeping  alive  among  us  the  enjoyment  of  the  external  and 
spiritual  world :  it  has  constituted  the  most  enduring  fame  of 
nations ;  and,  next  to  Love  and  Beauty,  which  are  its  parents, 
is  the  greatest  proof  to  man  of  the  pleasure  to  be  found  in  all 
things,  and  of  the  probable  riches  of  infinitude. 

Poetry  is  a  passion,*  because  it  seeks  the  deepest  impressions; 
and  because  it  must  undergo,  in  order  to  convey  them. 

It  is  a  passion  for  truth,  because  without  truth  the  impression 
would  be  false  or  defective. 

It  is  a  passion  for  beauty,  because  its  office  is  to  exalt  and  re- 
fine by  means  of  pleasure,  and  because  beauty  is  nothing  but 
the  loveliest  form  of  pleasure. 

*  Passio,  suffering  in  a  good  sense, — ardent  subjection  of  one's  self  to 
emotion 

2 


AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 


It  is  a  passion  for  power,  because  power  is  impression  tri- 
umphant, whether  over  the  poet,  as  desired  by  himself,  or  over 
the  reader,  as  affected  by  the  poet. 

It  embodies  and  illustrates  its  impressions  by  imagination,  or 
images  of  the  objects  of  which  it  treats,  and  other  images 
brought  in  to  throw  light  on  those  objects,  in  order  that  it  may 
enjoy  and  impart  the  feeling  of  their  truth  in  its  utmost  convic- 
tion and  affluence. 

It  illustrates  them  by  fancy,  which  is  a  lighter  play  of  imagi- 
nation, or  the  feeling  of  analogy  coming  short  of  seriousness, 
in  order  that  it  may  laugh  with  what  it  loves,  and  show  how  it 
can  decorate  it  with  fairy  ornament. 

It  modulates  what  it  utters,  because  in  running  the  whole 
round  of  beauty  it  must  needs  include  beauty  of  sound  ;  and 
because,  in  the  height  of  its  enjoyment,  it  must  show  the  per- 
fection of  its  triumph,  and  make  difficulty  itself  become  part  of 
its  facility  and  joy. 

And  lastly,  Poetry  shapes  this  modulation  into  uniformity  for 
its  outline,  and  variety  for  its  parts,  because  it  thus  realizes  the 
last  idea  of  beauty  itself,  which  includes  the  charm  of  diversity 
within  the  flowing  round  of  habit  and  ease. 

Poetry  is  imaginative  passion.  The  quickest  and  subtlest 
test  of  the  possession  of  its  essence  is  in  expression  ;  the  variety 
of  things  to  be  expressed  shows  the  amount  of  its  resources ; 
and  the  continuity  of  the  song  completes  the  evidence  of  its 
strength  and  greatness.  He  who  has  thought,  feeling,  expres- 
sion, imagination,  action,  character,  and  continuity,  all  in  the 
largest  amount  and  highest  degree,  is  the  greatest  poet. 

Poetry  includes  whatsoever  of  painting  can  be  made  visible 
to  the  mind's  eye,  and  whatsoever  of  music  can  be  conveyed  by 
sound  and  proportion  without  singing  or  instrumentation.  But 
it  far  surpasses  those  divine  arts  in  suggestiveness,  range,  and 
intellectual  wealth  ; — the  first,  in  expression  of  thought,  combi- 
nation of  images,  and  the  triumph  over  space  and  time  ;  the 
second,  in  all  that  can  be  done  by  speech,  apart  from  the  tones 
and  modulations  of  pure  sound.  Painting  and  music,  however, 
include  all  those  portions  of  the  gift  of  poetry  that  can  be  ex- 
pressed and  heightened  by  the  visible  and  melodious.     Painting, 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ? 


in  a  certain  apparent  manner,  is  things  themselves ;  music,  in  a 
certain  audible  manner,  is  their  very  emotion  and  grace.  Mu- 
sic and  painting  are  proud  to  be  related  to  poetry,  and  poetry 
loves  and  is  proud  of  them. 

Poetry  begins  where  matter  of  fact  or  of  science  ceases  to  be 
merely  such,  and  to  exhibit  a  further  truth ;  that  is  to  say,  the 
connexion  it  has  with  the  world  of  emotion,  and  its  power  to 
produce  imaginative  pleasure.  Inquiring  of  a  gardener,  for  in- 
stance, what  flower  it  is  that  we  see  yonder,  he  answers,  "  a 
lily."  This  is  matter  of  fact.  The  botanist  pronounces  it  to 
be  of  the  order  of  "  Hexandria  Monogynia."  This  is  matter 
of  science.  It  is  the  "  lady  "  of  the  garden,  says  Spenser ; 
and  here  we  begin  to  have  a  poetical  sense  of  its  fairness  and 
grace.     It  is 

The  plant  and  flower  of  light, 

says  Ben  Jonson  ;  and  poetry  then  shows  us  the  beauty  of  the 
flower  in  all  its  mystery  and  splendor. 

If  it  be  asked,  how  we  know  perceptions  like  these  to  be  true, 
the  answer  is,  by  the  fact  of  their  existence, — by  the  consent 
and  delight  of  poetic  readers.  And  as  feeling  is  the  earliest 
teacher,  and  perception  the  only  final  proof,  of  things  the  most 
demonstrable  by  science,  so  the  remotest  imaginations  of  the 
poets  may  often  be  found  to  have  the  closest  connexion  with 
matter  of  fact ;  perhaps  might  always  be  so,  if  the  subtlety  of 
our  perceptions  were  a  match  for  the  causes  of  them.  Con- 
sider this  image  of  Ben  Jonson's — of  a  lily  being  a  flower  of 
light.  Light,  undecomposed,  is  white  ;  and  as  the  lily  is  white, 
and  light  is  white,  and  whiteness  itself  is  nothing  but  light,  the  two 
things,  so  far,  are  not  merely  similar,  but  identical.  A  poet  might 
add,  by  an  analogy  drawn  from  the  connexion  of  light  and 
color,  and  there  is  a  "  golden  dawn"  issuing  out  of  the  white 
lily,  in  the  rich  yellow  of  the  stamens.  I  have  no  desire  to 
push  this  similarity  further  than  it  may  be  worth.  Enough  has 
been  stated  to  show  that,  in  poetical  as  in  other  analogies,  "  the 
same  feet  of  Nature,"  as  Bacon  says,  may  be  seen  "  treading  in 
different  paths;"  and  tha^  the  most  scornful,  that  is  to  say, 


AN  ANSWER  TO  THE   QUESTION 


dullest  disciple  of  fact,  should  be  cautious  how  he  betrays  the 
shallowness  of  his  philosophy  by  discerning  no  poetry  in  its 
depths. 

But  the  poet  is  far  from  dealing  only  with  these  subtle  and 
analogical  truths.  Truth  of  every  kind  belongs  to  him,  pro- 
vided it  can  bud  into  any  kind  of  beauty,  Dr  is  capable  of  being 
illustrated  and  impressed  by  the  poetic  faculty.  Nay,  the  sim- 
plest truth  is  often  so  beautiful  and  impressive  of  itself,  that  one 
of  the  greatest  proofs  of  his  genius  consists  in  his  leaving  it  to 
stand  alone,  illustrated  by  nothing  but  the  light  of  its  own  tears 
or  smiles,  its  own  wonder,  might,  or  playfulness.  Hence  the 
complete  effect  of  many  a  simple  passage  in  our  old  English 
ballads  and  romances,  and  of  the  passionate  sincerity  in  general 
of  the  greatest  early  poets,  such  as  Homer  and  Chaucer,  who 
flourished  before  the  existence  of  a  "literary  world,"  and  were 
not  perplexed  by  a  heap  of  notions  and  opinions,  or  by  doubts 
how  emotion  ought  to  be  expressed.  The  greatest  of  their  suc- 
cessors never  write  equally  to  the  purpose,  except  when  they 
can  dismiss  everything  from  their  minds  but  the  like  simple 
truth.  In  the  beautiful  poem  of  "  Sir  Eger,  Sir  Graham,  and 
Sir  Gray-Steel"  (see  it  in  Ellis's  Specimens,  or  Laing's  Early 
Metrical  Tales),  a  knight  thinks  himself  disgraced  in  the  eyes 
of  his  mistress  : 

Sir  Eger  said,  "  If  it  be  so, 
Then  wot  I  well  I  must  forego 
Love-liking,  and  manhood,  all  clean  !" 
The  water  rushed  out  of  his  een  ! 

Sir  Gray-Steel  is  killed  : — 

Gray-Steel  into  his  death  thus  throws  (throes  ?) 

He  waiters  (welters — throws  himself  about)  and  the 

grass  tip  draws  ; 

***** 

A  little  while  then  lay  he  still 
(Friends  that  him  saw,  liked  full  ill) 
And  bled  into  his  armor  bright. 

The  abode  of  Chaucer's  JReve,  or  Steward,  in  the  Canterbury 
Tales,  is  painted  in  two  lines,  which  nobody  ever  wished 
longer  : — 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ? 


His  wonning  (dwelling)  was  full  fair  upon  an  heath, 
With  greeny  trees  yshadowed  was  his  place. 

Every  one  knows  the  words  of  Lear,  "  most  matter-of-fact, 
most  melancholy." 

Pray  do  not  mock  me  ; 
I  am  a  very  foolish  fond  old  man 
Foursc6re  and  upwards : 

Not  an  hour  more,  nor  less  ;  and  to  deal  plainly 
I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 

It  is  thus,  by  exquisite  pertinence,  melody,  and  the  implied 
power  of  writing  with  exuberance,  if  need  be,  that  beauty  and 
truth  become  identical  in  poetry,  and  that  pleasure,  or  at  the 
very  worst,  a  balm  in  our  tears,  is  drawn  out  of  pain. 

It  is  a  great  and  rare  thing,  and  shows  a  lovely  imagination, 
when  the  poet  can  write  a  commentary,  as  it  were,  of  his  own, 
on  such  sufficing  passages  of  nature,  and  be  thanked  for  the 
addition.  There  is  an  instance  of  this  kind  in  Warner,  an  old 
Elizabethan  poet,  than  which  I  know  nothing  sweeter  in  the 
world.  He  is  speaking  of  Fair  Rosamond,  and  of  a  blow  given 
her  by  Queen  Eleanor. 

With  that  she  dash'd  her  on  the  lips, 

So  dyed  double  red: 
Hard  teas  the  heart  that  gave  the  blow, 

Soft  were  those  lips  that  bled. 

There  are  different  kinds  and  degrees  of  imagination,  some 
of  them  necessary  to  the  formation  of  every  true  poet,  and  all  of 
them  possessed  by  the  greatest.  Perhaps  they  may  be  enume- 
rated as  follows : — First,  that  which  presents  to  the  mind  any 
object  or  circumstance  in  every-day  life  ;  as  when  we  imagine 
a  man  holding  a  sword,  or  looking  out  of  a  window  ; — Second, 
that  which  presents  real,  but  not  every-day  circumstances ;  as 
King  Alfred  tending  the  loaves,  or  Sir  Philip  Sidney  giving  up 
the  water  to  the  dying  soldier ; — Third,  that  which  combines 
character  and  events  directly  imitated  from  ieal  life,  with  imita- 
tive realities  of  its  own  invention  ;  as  the  probable  parts  of  the 
histories  of  Priam  and  Macbeth,  or  what  may  L\e  called  natural 


AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 


fiction  as  distinguished  from  supernatural ; — Fourth,  that  which 
conjures  up  things  and  events  not  to  be  found  in  nature  ;  as 
Homer's  gods,  and  Shakspeare's  witches,  enchanted  horses  and 
spears,  Ariosto's  hippogriff,  &c. ; — Fifth,  that  which,  in  order  to 
illustrate  or  aggravate  one  image,  introduces  another  ;  sometimes 
in  simile,  as  when  Homer  compares  Apollo  descending  in  his 
wrath  at  noon-day  to  the  coming  of  night-time  :  sometimes  in 
metaphor,  or  simile  comprised  in  a  word,  as  in  Milton's  "  motes 
that  people  the  sunbeams  ;"  sometimes  in  concentrating  into  a 
word  the  main  history  of  any  person  or  thing,  past  or  even 
future,  as  in  the  "starry  Galileo"  of  Byron,  and  that  ghastly 
foregone  conclusion  of  the  epithet  "  murdered"  applied  to  the 
yet  living  victim  in  Keats's  story  from  Boccaccio — 

So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murder"  d  man 
Rode  towards  fair  Florence ; — 

sometimes  in  the  attribution  of  a  certain  representative  quality 
which  makes  one  circumstance  stand  for  others ;  as  in  Milton's 
grey-fly  winding  its  "  sultry  horn,"  which  epithet  contains  the 
heat  of  a  summer's  day  ; — Sixth,  that  which  reverses  this  pro- 
cess, and  makes  a  variety  of  circumstances  take  color  from  one, 
like  nature  seen  with  jaundiced  or  glad  eyes,  or  under  the  influ- 
ence of  storm  or  sunshine ;  as  when  in  Lycidas,  or  the  Greek 
pastoral  poets,  the  flowers  and  the  flocks  are  made  to  sympathize 
with  a  man's  death ;  or,  in  the  Italian  poet,  the  river  flowing  by 
the  sleeping  Angelica  seems  talking  of  love — 

Parea  che  1'  erba  le  fiorisse  intorno, 
E  d'  amor  ragionasse  quella  riva ! — 

Orlando  Innamorato,  Canto  iii. 

or  in  the  voluptuous  homage  paid  to  the  sleeping  Imogen  by  the 
very  light  in  the  chamber  and  the  reaction  of  her  own  beauty 
upon  itself  ;  or  in  the  "  witch  element"  of  the  tragedy  of  Mac- 
beth and  the  May-day  night  of  Faust ; — Seventh,  and  last,  that 
which  by  a  single  expression,  apparently  of  the  vaguest  kind, 
not  only  meets  but  surpasses  in  its  effect  the  extremest  force  of 
the  most  particular  description  j  as  in  that  exquisite  passage  of 


WHAT  IS  POETRY? 


Coleridge's  Christabel,  where  "the  unsuspecting  object  of  the 
witch's  malignity  is  bidden  to  go  to  bed : — 

Quoth  Christabel,  So  let  it  be  ! 
And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness  ; — 

a  perfect  verse  surely,  both  for  feeling  and  music.  The  very 
smoothness  and  gentleness  of  the  limbs  is  in  the  series  of  the  let- 
ter Vs. 

I  am  aware  of  nothing  of  the  kind  surpassing  the  most  lovely 
inclusion  of  physical  beauty  in  moral,  neither  can  I  call  to  mind 
any  instances  of  the  imagination  that  turns  accompaniments  into 
accessories,  superior  to  those  I  have  alluded  to.  Of  the  class  of 
comparison,  one  of  the  most  touching  (many  a  tear  must  it  have 
drawn  from  parents  and  lovers)  is  in  a  stanza  which  has  been 
copied  into  the  "  Friar  of  Orders  Grey,"  out  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher : — 

Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more, 

Thy  sorrow  is  in  vain  ; 
For  violets  pluck' d  the  sweetest  showers 
Will  ne'er  make  grow  again. 

And  Shakspeare  and  Milton  abound  in  the  very  grandest ;  such 
as  Antony's  likening  his  changing  fortunes  to  the  cloud-rack ; 
Lear's  appeal  to  the  old  age  of  the  heavens  ;  Satan's  appearance 
in  the  horizon,  like  a  fleet  "  hanging  in  the  clouds  ;"  and  the 
comparisons  of  him  with  the  comet  and  the  eclipse.  Nor  un- 
worthy of  this  glorious  company,  for  its  extraordinary  combina- 
tion of  delicacy  and  vastness,  is  that  enchanting  one  of  Shelley's 
in  the  Adonais  : — 

Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-colored  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  eternity. 

I  multiply  these  particulars  in  order  to  impress  upon  the  reader's 
mind  the  great  importance  of  imagination  in  all  its  phases,  as  a 
constituent  part  of  the  highest  poetic  faculty. 

The  happiest  instance  I  remember  of  imaginative  metaphor 


AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 


is  Shakspeare's  moonlight  "  sleeping"  on  a  bank  ;  but  half  his 
poetry  may  be  said  to  be  made  up  of  it,  metaphor  indeed  being 
the  common  coin  of  discourse.  Of  imaginary  creatures,  none 
out  of  the  pale  of  mythology  and  the  East,  are  equal,  perhaps, 
in  point  of  invention,  to  Shakspeare's  Ariel  and  Caliban  ;  though 
poetry  may  grudge  to  prose  the  discovery  of  a  Winged  Woman, 
especially  such  as  she  has  been  described  by  her  inventor  in  the 
story  of  Peter  Wilkins  ;  and  in  point  of  treatment,  the  Mammon 
and  Jealousy  of  Spenser,  some  of  the  monsters  in  Dante,  particu- 
larly his  Nimrod,  his  interchangements  of  creatures  into  one 
another,  and  (if  I  am  not  presumptuous  in  anticipating  what  I 
think  will  be  the  verdict  of  posterity)  the  Witch  in  Coleridge's 
Christabel,  may  rank  even  with  the  creations  of  Shakspeare. 
It  may  be  doubted,  indeed,  whether  Shakspeare  had  bile  and 
nightmare  enough  in  him  to  have  thought  of  such  detestable  hor- 
rors as  those  of  the  interchanging  adversaries  (now  serpent,  now 
man),  or  even  of  the  huge,  half-blockish  enormity  of  Nimrod, — 
in  Scripture,  the  "-mighty  hunter"  and  builder  of  the  tower  of 
Babel, — in  Dante,  a  tower  of  a  man  in  his  own  person,  standing 
with  some  of  his  brother  giants  up  to  the  middle  in  a  pit  in  hell, 
blowing  a  horn  to  which  a  thunder-clap  is  a  whisper,  and  halloo 
ing  after  Dante  and  his  guide  in  the  jargon  of  the  lost  tongue  ! 
The  transformations  are  too  odious  to  quote  :  but  of  the  towering 
giant  we  cannot  refuse  ourselves  the  "  fearful  joy"  of  a  speci- 
men. It  was  twilight,  Dante  tells  us,  and  he  and  his  guide  Vir- 
gil were  silently  pacing  through  one  of  the  dreariest  regions  of 
hell,  when  the  sound  of  a  tremendous  horn  made  him  turn  all  his 
attention  to  the  spot  from  which  it  came.  He  there  discovered 
through  the  dusk,  what  seemed  to  be  the  towers  of  a  city. 
Those  are  no  towers,  said  his  guide  ;  they  are  giants,  standing 
up  to  the  middle  in  one  of  these  circular  pits. 

Come  quando  la  nibbia  si  dissipa, 

Lo  sguardo  a  poco  a  poco  raffigura 

Cid  che  cela  1'  vapor  che  1'  acre  stipa ; 
Cosi  forando  1'  aer  grossa  e  scura 

Piu  e  piu  appressando  in  ver  lasponda, 

Fuggemi  errore,  e  giugnemi  paura : 
Perocche  come  in  su  la  cerchia  tonda 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ? 


Montereggion  di  torri  si  corona, 

Cosi  la  proda  che  '1  pozzo  circonda 
Torreggiavan  di  mezza  la  persona 

Gli  orribili  giganti,  cui  minaccia 

Giove  del  cielo  ancora,  quando  tuona  : 
Ed  io  scorgeva  gia'  d'alcun  la  faccia, 

Le  spalle  e  '1  petto,  e  del  ventre  gran  parte, 

E  per  le  coste  giu  ambo  le  braccia. 

*  *  *  * 

La  faccia  sua  mi  parea  lunga  e  grossa 
Come  la  pina  di  san  Pietro  a  Roma  : 

E  a  sua  proporzion  eran  l'altr'  ossa. 

*  *  *  * 

Rafel  mai  amech  zabi  almi 

Comincio  a  gridar  la  riera  bocca, 
Cui  non  si  convenien  piii  dolci  salmi. 

E  '1  duca  mio  ver  lui :  anima  sciocca, 
Tienti  col  corno,  e  con  quel  ti  disfoga, 
Quand'  ira  o  altra  passion  ti  tocca. 

Cercati  al  collo,  e  troverai  la  soga 
Che  '1  tien  legato,  o  anima  confusa, 
E  vedi  lui  che  '1  gran  petto  ti  doga. 

Poi  disse  a  me  :  egli  stesso  s'  accusa  : 
Questi  e  Nembrotto,  per  lo  cui  mal  coto 
Pure  un  linguaggio  nel  mondo  non  s'  usa. 

Lasciamlo  stare,  e  non  parliamo  a  voto  : 
Che  cosi  e  a  lui  ciascun  linguaggio, 
Come  *1  suo  ad  altrui  ch'  a  nullo  e  noto. 

Inferno,  Canto  xxxi.,  ver.  34. 

I  look'd  again  ;  and  as  the  eye  makes  out, 
By  little  and  little,  what  the  mist  conceal'd 
In  which,  till  clearing  up,  the  sky  was  steep'd  ; 
So,  looming  through  the  gross  and  darksome  air, 
As  we  drew  nigh,  those  mighty  bulks  grew  plain, 
And  error  quitted  me,  and  terror  join'd  : 
For  in  like  manner  as  all  round  its  height 
Montereggione  crowns  itself  with  towers, 
So  tower'd  above  the  circuit  of  that  pit, 
Though  but  half  out  of  it,  and  half  within, 
The  horrible  giants  that  fought  love,  and  still 
Are  threaten'd  when  he  thunders.     As  we  near'd 
The  foremost,  I  discern'd  his  mighty  face, 
His  shoulders,  breast,  and  more  than  half  his  trunk. 
With  both  the  arms  down  hanging  by  the  sides. 
His  face  appear'd  to  me,  in  length  and  breadth, 


IG  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

Huge  as  St.  Peter's  pinnacle  at  Rome, 

And  of  a  like  proportion  all  his  bones. 

He  open'd,  as  he  went,  his  dreadful  mouth, 

Fit  for  no  sweeter  psalmody  ;  and  shouted 

After  us,  in  the  words  of  some  strange  tongue, 

Rafel  ma-ee  amech  zabee  almee  ! — 

"  Dull  wretch  !"  my  leader  cried,  "keep  to  thine  born, 

And  so  vent  better  whatsoever  rage 

Or  other  passion  stuff  thee.     Feel  thy  throat 

And  find  the  chain  upon  thee,  thou  confusion ! 

Lo  !  what  a  hoop  is  clench'd  about  thy  gorge." 

Then  turning  to  myself,  he  said,  "  His  howl 

Is  its  own  mockery.     This  is  Nimrod,  he 

Through  whose  ill  thought  it  was  that  humankind 

Were  tongue-confounded.     Pass  him,  and  say  naught : 

For  as  he  speaketh  language  known  of  none, 

So  none  can  speak  save  jargon  to  himself." 

Assuredly  it  could  not  have  been  easy  to  find  a  fiction  so  un- 
couthly  terrible  as  this  in  the  hypochondria  of  Hamlet.  Even 
his  father  had  evidently  seen  no  such  ghost  in  the  other  world. 
All  his  phantoms  were  in  the  world  he  had  left.  Timon,  Lear, 
Richard,  Brutus,  Prospero,  Macbeth  himself,  none  of  Shaks- 
peare's  men  had,  in  fact,  any  thought  but  of  the  earth  they 
lived  on,  whatever  supernatural  fancy  crossed  them.  The 
thincr  fancied  was  still  a  thins  of  this  world,  "in  its  habit  as  it 
lived,"  or  no  remoter  acquaintance  than  a  witch  or  a  fairy.  Its 
lowest  depths  (unless  Dante  suggested  them)  were  the  cellars 
under  the  stage.  Caliban  himself  is  a  cross-breed  between  a 
witch  and  a  clown.  No  offence  to  Shakspeare  ;  who  was  not 
bound  to  be  the  greatest  of  healthy  poets,  and  to  have  every 
morbid  inspiration  besides.  What  he  might  have  done,  had  he 
set  his  wits  to  compete  with  Dante,  I  know  not :  all  I  know  is, 
that  in  the  infernal  line  he  did  nothing  like  him  ;  and  it  is  not 
to  be  wished  he  had.  It  is  far  better  that,  as  a  higher,  more 
universal,  and  more  beneficent  variety  of  the  genus  Poet,  he 
should  have  been  the  happier  man  he  was,  and  left  us  the  plump 
cheeks  on  his  monument,  instead  of  the  carking  visage  of  the 
great,  but  over-serious,  and  comparatively  one-sided  Florentine. 
Even  the  imagination  of  Spenser,  whom  we  take  to  have  been 
a  "  nervous  gentleman"  compared  with  Shakspeare,  was  visited 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  11 


with  no  such  dreams  as  Dante.  Or,  if  it  was,  he  did  notchoo.se 
to  make  himself  thinner  (as  Dante  says  he  did)  with  dwelling 
upon  them.  He  had  twenty  visions  of  nymphs  and  bowers,  to 
one  of  the  mud  of  Tartarus.  Chaucer,  for  all  he  was  "  a  man 
of  this  world  "  as  well  as  the  poets'  world,  and  as  great,  per- 
haps  a  greater  enemy  of  oppression  than  Dante,  besides  being 
one  of  the  profoundest  masters  of  pathos  that  ever  lived,  had 
not  the  heart  to  conclude  the  story  of  the  famished  father  and 
his  children,  as  finished  by  the  inexorable  anti-Pisan.  But 
enough  of  Dante  in  this  place.  Hobbes,  in  order  to  daunt  the 
reader  from  objecting  to  his  friend  Davenant's  want  of  invention, 
says  of  these  fabulous  creations  in  general,  in  his  letter  pre- 
fixed to  the  poem  of  Gondibert,  that  "  impenetrable  armors,  en- 
chanted castles,  invulnerable  bodies,  iron  men,  flying  horses, 
and  a  thousand  other  such  things,  are  easily  feigned  by  them 
that  dare.''  These  are  girds  at  Spenser  and  Ariosto.  But, 
with  leave  of  Hobbes  (who  translated  Homer  as  if  on  purpose 
to  show  what  execrable  verses  could  be  written  by  a  philoso- 
pher), enchanted  castles  and  flying  horses  are  not  easily  feigned, 
as  Ariosto  and  Spenser  feigned  them  ;  and  that  just  makes  all 
the  difference.  For  proof,  see  the  accounts  of  Spenser's  en- 
chanted castle  in  Book  the  Third,  Canto  Twelfth,  of  the  Fairy 
Queen  ;  and  let  the  reader  of  Italian  open  the  Orlando  Furioso 
at  its  first  introduction  of  the  Hippogriff  (Canto  iii.,  st.  4),  where 
Bradamante,  coming  to  an  inn,  hears  a  great  noise,  and  sees  all 
the  people  looking  up  at  something  in  the  air  ;  upon  which, 
looking  up  herself,  she  sees  a  knight  in  shining  armor  riding 
towards  the  sunset  upon  a  creature  with  variegated  wings,  and 
then  dipping  and  disappearing  among  the  hills.  Chaucer's  steed 
of  brass,  that  was 

So  horsly  and  so  quick  of"  eye, 

is  copied  from  tue  life.  You  might  pat  him  and  fori  his  brazen 
muscles.  Hobbes,  in  objecting  to  what  he  thought  childish, 
made  a  childish  mistake.  His  criticism  is  just  such  as  a  boy 
might  pique  himself  upon,  who  was  educated  on  mechanical 
principles,  and  thought  he  had  outgrown   his  Goody  Two-shoes. 


12  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

With  a  wonderful  dimness  of  discernment  in  poetic  matters, 
considering  his  acuteness  in  others,  he  fancies  he  has  settled  the 
question  by  pronouncing  such  creations  "  impossible  !"  To  the 
brazier  they  are  impossible,  no  doubt ;  but  not  to  the  poet. 
Their  possibility,  if  the  poet  wills  it,  is  to  be  conceded  ;  the 
problem  is,  the  creature  being  given,  how  to  square  its  actions 
with  probability,  according  to  the  nature  assumed  of  it.  Hobbes 
did  not  see,  that  the  skill  and  beauty  of  these  fictions  lay  in 
bringing  them  within  those  very  regions  of  truth  and  likelihood 
in  which  he  thought  they  could  not  exist.  Hence  the  serpent 
Python  of  Chaucer, 

Sleeving  against  the  sun  upon  a  day, 

when  Apollo  slew  him.  Hence  the  chariot-drawing  dolphins  of 
Spenser,  softly  swimming  along  the  shore  lest  they  should  hurt 
themselves  against  the  stones  and  gravel.  Hence  Shakspeare's 
Ariel,  living  under  blossoms,  and  riding  at  evening  on  the  bat ; 
and  his  domestic  namesake  in  the  "  Rape  of  the  Lock"  (the 
imagination  of  the  drawing-room)  saving  a  lady's  petticoat  from 
the  coffee  with  his  plumes,  and  directing  atoms  of  snuff  into  a 
coxcomb's  nose.  In  the  "  Orlando  Furioso"  (Canto  xv.,  st. 
65)  is  a  wild  story  of  a  cannibal  necromancer,  who  laughs  at 
being  cut  to  pieces,  coming  together  again  like  quicksilver,  and 
picking  up  his  head  when  it  is  cut  off,  sometimes  by  the  hair, 
sometimes  by  the  nose  !  This,  which  would  be  purely  childish 
and  ridiculous  in  the  hands  of  an  inferior  poet,  becomes  inter- 
esting, nay  grand,  in  Ariosto's,  from  the  beauties  of  his  style. 
and  its  conditional  truth  to  nature.  The  monster  has  a  fated 
hair  on  his  head, — a  single  hair, — which  must  be  taken  from  it 
before  he  can  be  killed.  Decapitation  itself  is  of  no  consequence, 
without  that  proviso.  The  Paladin  Astolfo,  who  has  fought  this 
phenomenon  on  horseback,  and  succeeded  in  getting  the  head 
and  galloping  off  with  it,  is  therefore  still  at  a  loss  what  to  be 
at.  How  is  he  to  discover  such  a  needle  in  such  a  bottle  of 
hay  ?  The  trunk  is  spurring  after  him  to  recover  it,  and  he 
seeks  for  some  evidence  of  the  hair  in  vain.  At  length  he  be- 
thinks himself  of  scalping  the  head.     He  does  so  ;  and  the  mo- 


WHAT  IS  POETRY?  13 


ment  the  operation  arrives  at  the  place  of  the  hair,  the  face  of 
the  head  becomes  pale,  the  eyes  turn  in  their  sockets,  and  tha  lite- 
less  pursuer  tumbles  from  his  horse. 

Si  fece  il  viso  allor  pallido  e  brutto, 
Travolse  gli  occhi,  e  dimostro  a  '1  occaso 
Per  manifesti  segni  esser  condutto. 
E  '1  busto  che  seguia  troncato  al  collo, 
Di  sella  cadde,  e  die  1'  ultimo  crollo 

Then  grew  the  visage  pale,  and  deadly  wet ; 
The  eyes  turned  in  their  sockets,  drearily  ; 
And  all  things  show'd  the  villain's  sun  was  set. 
His  trunk  that  was  in  chase,  fell  from  its  horse, 
And  giving  the  last  shudder,  was  a  corse. 

It  is  thus,  and  thus  only,  by  making  Nature  his  companion 
wherever  he  goes,  even  in  the  most  supernatural  region,  that  the 
poet,  in  the  words  of  a  very  instructive  phrase,  takes  the  world 
alono-  with  him.  It  is  true,  he  must  not  (as  the  Platonists  would 
say)  humanize  weakly  or  mistakenly  in  that  region ;  otherwise 
he  runs  the  chance  of  forgetting  to  be  true  to  the  supernatural 
itself,  and  so  betraying  a  want  of  imagination  from  that  quar- 
ter. His  nymphs  will  have  no  taste  of  their  woods  and  waters ; 
his  gods  and  goddesses  be  only  so  many  fair  or  frowning  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  such  as  we  see  in  ordinary  paintings  ;  he  will 
be  in  no  danger  of  having  his  angels  likened  to  a  sort  of  wild- 
fowl, as  Rembrandt  has  made  them  in  his  Jacob's  Dream.  His 
Bacchus's  will  never  remind  us,  like  Titian's,  of  the  force  and 
fury,  as  well  as  of  the  graces,  of  wine.  His  Jupiter  will  reduce 
no  females  to  ashes ;  his  fairies  be  nothing  fantastical  ;  his 
gnomes  not  "  of  the  earth,  earthy."  And  this  again  will  be 
wanting  to  Nature  ;  for  it  will  be  wanting  to  the  supernatural, 
as  Nature  would  have  made  it,  working  in  a  supernatural  direc- 
tion. Nevertheless,  the  poet,  even  for  imagination's  sake,  must 
not  become  a  bigot  to  imaginative  truth,  dragging  it  down  into 
the  region  of  the  mechanical  and  the  limited,  and  losing  sight  of 
its  paramount  privilege,  which  is  to  make  beauty,  in  a  human 
sense,  the  lady  and  queen  of  the  universe.  He  would  gain 
•■othing  bv  making  his  ocean-nymphs  mere  fishy  creatures,  upon 


14  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

the  plea  that  such  only  could  live  in  the  water:  his  wood- 
nymphs  with  faces  of  knotted  oak ;  his  angels  without  breath 
and  song,  because  no  lungs  could  exist  between  the  earth's 
atmosphere  and  the  empyrean.  The  Grecian  tendency  in  this 
respect  is  safer  than  the  Gothic  ;  nay,  more  imaginative  ;  for  it 
enables  us  to  imagine  beyond  imagination,  and  to  bring  all  things 
healthily  round  to  their  only  present  final  ground  of  sympathy 
— the  human.  When  we  go  to  heaven,  we  may  idealize  in  a 
superhuman  mode,  and  have  altogether  different  notions  of  the 
beautiful  ;  but  till  then,  we  must  be  content  with  the  loveliest 
capabilities  of  earth.  The  sea-nymphs  of  Greece  were  still 
beautiful  women,  though  they  lived  in  the  water.  The  gills  and 
fins  of  the  ocean's  natural  inhabitants  were  confined  to  their 
lowest  semi-human  attendants ;  or  if  Triton  himself  was  not 
quite  human,  it  was  because  he  represented  the  fiercer  part  of 
the  vitality  of  the  seas,  as  they  did  the  fairer. 

To  conclude  this  part  of  my  subject,  I  will  quote  from  the 
greatest  of  all  narrative  writers  two  passages  ; — one  exemplifying 
the  imagination  which  brings  supernatural  things  to,  bear  on 
earthly,  without  confounding  them ;  the  other,  that  which  paints 
events  and  circumstances  after  real  life.  The  first  is  where 
Achilles,  who  has  long  absented  himself  from  the  conflict  be- 
tween his  countrymen  and  the  Trojans,  has  had  a  message  from 
heaven,  bidding  him  re-appear  in  the  enemy's  sight,  standing 
outside  the  camp-wall  upon  the  trench,  but  doing  nothing  more  ; 
that  is  to  say,  taking  no  part  in  the  fight.  He  is  simply  to  be 
seen.  The  two  armies  down  by  the  sea-side  are  contending 
which  shall  possess  the  body  of  Patroclus ;  and  the  mere  sight 
of  the  dreadful  Grecian  chief — supernaturally  indeed  impressed 
upon  them,  in  order  that  nothing  may  be  wanting  to  the  full 
effect  of  his  courage  and  conduct  upon  courageous  men — is  to 
determine  the  question.  We  are  to  imagine  a  slope  of  ground 
towards  the  sea,  in  order  to  elevate  the  trench ;  the  camp  is 
solitary  ;  the  battle  ("a  dreadful  roar  of  men,"  as  Homer  calls 
it)  is  raging  on  the  sea-shore ;  and  the  goddess  Iris  has  just 
delivered  her  message,  and  disappeared. 

A-vrap  A^iAXeus  upro  An  (f>i\os'  ap^i  6'  A0i?>"7 
£2^o<j  upBifioidi  fiaX  aiyi&a  BvooavowoaV 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  15 


A.ji(pi  Se  01  K£tpa\r]  vcipoi  carets  5ia  Qeaa>v 
~X.pvaeov,  ck  5'  avTov  8atc  f\oya  Ttaft(pavoo>aa^. 
'£2?  6'  'ore  Ktnrvos  io)v  e£  aarsog  aidcp'  'iKrirai 
Trj\oOcv  ck  vrioov,  Tt\v  5r\ioi  ajia^ijia^ovrat, 
'Oitc  iravrijiLepiot  o-rvytpoi  Kpivovrai  April 
Actcos  ck  tripcrcpov'  ajia  6'  ijtXio)  KtxraSvvTi 
Tlvpaoi  ti  tp\cyc9ovcriP  cirTiTpijioi,  vtyoae  5'  avyri 
liyvcrai  aiaaovaa,  TTipiKTiovcacriv  iScadai, 
A<  kcv  tcos  aw  vrivaiv  apt);  a\KTr)pc;  iKtovTttl' 
'S2j  an-'  A^iXX^of  KC<pa\rts  crcXaj  aiQcp'  iKavcv. 

Sr»)  5'  ctti  raippov  tbjv  axo  tci^cos'  ov6'  cs  Avaiouj 
\Lt(TyCTO'  ftrjTpaq  yap  TrVKivr/v  ojtti^ct'  cpcr/ir/v. 
Ev0a  cttoj  rjva'  anarepde  6c  IlaAXas  A-Oqi'i] 
$0£y|ar'-  arap  Tpojcaatv  cv  aatrcTOV  wpac  KV&oifiov 
'£2?  5'  or  api^rfKn  <p<t>vn,  brc  t    <a%£  aakiriy^ 
A.OTV  TTcpiir\oficvo>v  irjioiv  vtto  QvpopaiCTCWv' 
'Q,i  tot'  apt$rj\ri  (poivr]  yever'  Aia/a<5ao. 
'Oi  6'  &)$  ovv  aiov  ona  voKksov  Aia<ci<5ao, 
TIaaiv  opivQrj  Ovj-ioi'  a.Tap  KaWiTpiyc;  'nrrroi 
At//  o^za  Tpoirsov'  oaaovTO  yap  a\yca  Ov/tw. 
'lELviovoi  6'  CKrrXriyzv,  cttci  tSov  aKaparov  izvp 
Acivov  VTtcp  KC(j>a\r\s  fxcyaBojWV  WqXcitovoq 
Aaiojicvov'  to  5c  Sate  dca  yXavKtoiri;  Adr/vr/. 
TptS  jiCV  viicp  Taij>pov  fityaX  ia%c  5ios  A^iXXeus, 

TfHf    5c    KVKr/Oniav    TpMEf,    K^CLTOl    t'   CTTlKOVpOl. 

TSifda  5c  Ktti  tot    o\iivto  5vo}6sKa  tpwTts  aptoroi 
A/i'/u  cipois  o^ccaaa  Kai  cy-^emv. 

Iliad,  Lib.  xviii.,  v.  903. 

ut  up  Achilles  rose,  the  lov'd  of  heaven ; 
And  Pallas  on  his  mighty  shoulders  cast 
The  shield  of  Jove;  and  round  about  his  head 
She  put  the  glory  of  a  golden  mist, 
From  which  there  burnt  a  fiery-flaming  light. 
And  as,  when  smoke  goes  heaven-ward  from  a  town, 
In  some  far  island  which  its  foes  besiege, 
Who  all  day  long  with  dreadful  martialness 
Have  pour'd  from  their  own  town ;  soon  as  the  sun 
Has  set,  thick  lifted  fires  are  visible, 
Which,  rushing  upward,  make  a  light  in  the  sky, 
Vnd  let  the  neighbors  know,  who  may  perhaps 

'flting  help  across  the  sea ;  so  from  the  head 

f  great  Achilles  went  up  an  effulgence. 

pon  the  trench  he  stood,  without  the  wall, 
it  mix'd  not  with  the  Greeks,  for  he  rever'd 


16  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

His  mother's  word ;  and  so,  thus  standing  there, 

He  shouted ;  and  Minerva,  to  his  shout, 

Added  a  dreadful  cry  ;  and  there  arose 

Among  the  Trojans  an  unspeakable  tumult. 

And  as  the  clear  voiae  of  a  trumpet,  blown 

Against  a  town  by  spirit-withering  foes, 

So  sprang  the  clear  voice  of  ^Eacides. 

And  when  they  heard  the  brazen  cry,  their  hearts 

All  leap'd  within  them  ;  and  the'  proud-maned  horses 

Ran  with  the  chariots  round,  for  they  foresaw 

Calamity ;  and  the  charioteers  were  smitten, 

When  they  beheld  the  ever-active  fire 

Upon  the  dreadml  head  of  the  great-minded  one 

Burning  ;  for  bright-eyed  Pallas  made  it  burn. 

Thrice  o'er  the  trench  divine  Achilles  shouted ; 

And  thrice  the  Trojans  and  their  great  allies 

Roil'd  back ;  and  twelve  of  all  their  noblest  men 

Then  perished,  crush'd  by  their  own  arms  and  chariots. 

Of  course  there  is  no  further  question  about  the  body  of  Patro- 
clus.  It  is  drawn  out  of  the  press,  and  received  by  the  awful 
hero  with  tears. 

The  other  passage  is  where  Priam,  kneeling  before  Achilles, 
and  imploring  him  to  give  up  the  dead  body  of  Hector,  reminds 
him  of  his  own  father  ;  who,  whatever  (says  the  poor  old  king) 
may  be  his  troubles  with  his  enemies,  has  the  blessing  of  know- 
ing that  his  son  is  still  alive,  and  may  daily  hope  to  see  him 
return.  Achilles,  in  accordance  with  the  strength  and  noble 
honesty  of  the  passions  in  those  times,  weeps  aloud  himself  at 
this  appeal,  feeling,  says  Homer,  "  desire"  for  his  father  in  his 
very  "  limbs."  He  joins  in  grief  with  the  venerable  sufferer, 
and  can  no  longer  withstand  the  look  of  "  his  great  head  and 
his  grey  chin."  Observe  the  exquisite  introduction  of  this  last 
word.  It  paints  the  touching  fact  of  the  chin's  being  implor- 
ingly thrown  upward  by  the  kneeling  old  man,  and  the  very 
motion  of  his  beard  as  he  speaks. 

'£2$  apa  (poivrjaas  atrefin  irpof  fnaKpov  O\vfiirov 
"Ep^/cias-  npia/jof  <5'  tf  iOTr&)i>  a\ro  ^a/ia^c, 
ISaiov  6c  k<xt    avdi  Xurei'"  b  Sc  fii/juicp  cpVKoyv 
'l7r7roi>{  rifiiovovf  re'  ycpuv  <T  idv(  Kiev  oiKOVt 
Trj  p'  A^iXcuj  l^ctTKC,  An  <pi\oi'  cv  it  jiw  avrov 
'Evp'  irapot  &'  axavevdt  Kadctaro'  to  St  <5o'  oia), 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  17 


'Hpcoj  AvTOficSbyv  re  Kai  AXki^io;,  o$os  Apioj, 

THoiirvvov  -rrapcovrc'  vcov  o"  awcXriycv  e6co6qs 

Eadoyv  Kai  irtvwv,  cri  Kai  iraptKCtro  rpawe^a. 

Tovs  6'  c\ad'  titxc\8u>v  Ylpia/xos  jieyas,  ay%i  6'  apa  eras 

Xcfxrii/  A^iXXrws  Aa/?£  yovvara,  Kai  kvoc  %eipas 

Actvas,  av6poipovovs,  a'l  ol  no\cas  kt<xvov  vias. 

'Q.S  o"  brav  av6p'  arrj  TTVKtvr]  \afir),  bar'  evt  varpr) 

Qutra  KaraKrcivas,  aXXmv  c^ikcto  6r\p.ov, 

A.v6pos  es  atyvciov,  Oaji(ios  6'  £%£!  cio-opocovras, 

'Q?  A^iXeus  dapPrio-ev,  iSiov  Ylpia/nov  6coei6ca' 

Qafifiriaav  6c  Kai  aWot,  ££  aXXijXouj  <Jc  iSovto. 

Tov  Kai  Xiucojjlcvos  Tlpiapos  irpos  jxvQov  ccincp' 

Me»j<ra(  irarpos  acio,  Scots  ctticikcX  A%iXXe», 
TrtXiKOV,  liidTTtp  eyiov,  oXooj  titi  yripaos  ovSco. 
Km  jitv  irov  kcivov  ncpivaicrai  ajupts  eovres 
Teipova',  ovScti;  cariv  apr\v  Kai  \oiyov  ajivvat' 
AXX'  >jroi  kcivos  ye,  acQcv  ^wovros  aKovwv, 
Xaipa  t   cv  Bvjib),  cm  t  ckitcrai  rjfiara  navra 
Oxptudat  (piKov  viov  euro  TpoitjOev  tovra' 
A.vrap  cya  Travairorjios,  cnci  tckov  vias  apiorovf 
Tpoir/  tv  cvpciri,  tiov  o"  ovriva  tyr\jn  \e\ct<pdai. 
YLtvTTjKOVTa  /not  rjaav,  or   r]\v9ov  vies  A^aicoi/* 
EvvcaKatScKa  ficv  poi  tr/s  ck  i/tjSvos  rjtrav, 
Tod?  6'  aWovs  \ioi  ctiktov  evi  ftcyapoici  yvvaiKCS. 
Tiiiv  ftev  ttoWuv  dovpos  A.prjs  vtto  yovvar'  c\vacv" 
'&2$  6c  jtoi  oiostr\v,  ctpvTO  6c  atJTV  Kai  avrovs, 
Tov  ovirpojnv  KTCivas,  ajxvvoyLCvov  ircpi  narp-qs, 
'Exropa'  tov  vvv  £ivc%   iKavoi  vrjas  A-^aitav, 
Awo^ievoj  vapa  acio,  <pcpo>  6'  aircptici    anoiva. 
AXX'  ai6tio  Qtovs,  A^iXfti,  avrov  r'  tXerio-ov, 
M.VTiaantvos  gov  itarpos'  syoi  6'  tSttivortpos  ftp, 
EtXiji*  S ,  dt  ovtto>  tis  tTTi^dovio;  ffporos  aWog, 
A.v6pos  Trai6o<povoio  won  arojia  %£'(?'  opeyiyQai. 

'Qs  <paro'  tu)  6'  apa  irarpos  v<j>'  tpepov  wpat  yooio. 
A.ipajtevos  6'  apa  %tipos,  a-moaaro  rjKa  yepovra. 
Tto  6c  ftvrio-apsvo),  b  jicv  'Exropof  ai>6po(pnvoiot 
KXai'  a6tva,  Trpoirapotdc  tto6wv  A^iXiyoy  t\vadtis' 
A.VTap  A%(XX£U{  KXaicv  cov  warep',  aWore  6'  avTi 
TlarpoK\ov'  roiv  6s  cfTOva-^n  Kara  6<i>p.aT    opiopti. 
A.vr#p  cnti  /'m  yooio  TtrapirtTO  6ios  A^iXXtwf, 
Kae  6i  aizo  Trpairi6oiv  r)X0'  tjxtpos  r>6    airo  yvtwv, 
A.vtik'  ann  Qpuvov  oipro,  yepovra  6c  XtlP°s  al'"rr'/i 
OiKTtipaiv  ffoXioi/  te  Kapn,  tto\iov  re  yc  ClOV. 

Iliad,  Lib.  xxiv.,  v.  46S. 


n 


18  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

So  saying,  Mercury  vanished  up  to  heaven : 

And  Priam  then  alighted  from  his  chariot, 

Leaving  Idoeus  with  it,  who  remain'd 

Holding  the  mules  and  horses ;  and  the  old  man 

Went  straight  in-doors,  where  the  belov'd  of  Jove 

Achilles  sat,  and  found  him.     In  the  room 

Were  others,  but  apart ;  and  two  alone, 

The  hero  Automedon,  and  Alcimus, 

A  branch  of  Mars,  stood  by  him.     They  had  been 

At  meals,  and  had  not  yet  removed  the  board. 

Great  Priam  came,  without  their  seeing  him, 

And  kneeling  down,  he  clasp'd  Achilles'  knees, 

And  kiss'd  those  terrible,  homicidal  hands, 

Which  had  deprived  him  of  so  many  sons. 

And  as  a  man  who  is  press'd  heavily 

For  having  slain  another,  flies  away 

To  foreign  lands,  and  comes  into  the  house 

Of  some  great  man,  and  is  beheld  with  wonder, 

So  did  Achilles  wonder  to  see  Priam  ; 

And  the  rest  wonder'd,  looking  at  each  other. 

But  Priam,  praying  to  him,  spoke  these  words  :  - 

"  God-like  Achilles,  think  of  thine  own  father! 

To  the  same  age  have  we  both  come,  the  same 

Weak  pass ;  and  though  the  neighboring  chiefs  may  vefc 

Him  also,  and  his  borders  find  no  help, 

Yet  when  he  hears  that  thou  art  still  alive, 

He  gladdens  inwardly,  and  daily  hopes 

To  see  his  dear  son  coming  back  from  Troy. 

But  I,  bereav'd  old  Priam  !  I  had  once 

Brave  sons  in  Troy,  and  now  I  cannot  say 

That  one  is  left  me.     Fifty  children  had  I, 

When  the  Greeks  came ;  nineteen  were  of  one  womb ; 

The  rest  my  women  bore  me  in  my  house. 

The  knees  of  many  of  these  fierce  Mars  has  loosen'd ; 

And  he  who  had  no  peer,  Troy's  prop  and  theirs, 

Him  hast  thou  kill'd  now,  fighting  for  his  country, 

Hector ;  and  for  his  sake  am  I  come  here 

To  ransom  him,  bringing  a  countless  ransom. 

But  thou,  Achilles,  fear  the  gods,  and  think 

Of  thine  own  father,  and  have  mercy  on  me ; 

For  I  am  much  more  wretched,  and  have  borne 

What  never  mortal  bore,  I  think,  on  earth, 

To  lift  unto  my  lips  the  hand  of  him 

Wio  slew  my  boys." 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  19 

He  ceased ;  and  there  arose 
Sharp  longing  in  Achilles  for  his  father; 
And  taking  Priam  by  the  hand,  he  gently 
Put  him  away ;  for  both  shed  tears  to  think 
Of  other  times  ;  the  one,  most  bitter  ones 
For  Hector,  and  with  wilful  wretchedness 
Lay  right  before  Achilles  :  and  the  other, 
For  his  own  father  now,  and  now  his  friend ; 
And  the  whole  house  might  hear  them  as  they  moan'd. 
But  when  divine  Achilles  had  refresh'd 
His  soul  with  tears,  and  sharp  desire  had  left 
His  heart  and  limbs,  he  got  up  from  his  throne, 
And  rais'd  the  old  man  by  the  hand,  and  took 
Pity  on  his  grey  head  and  his  grey  chin. 

O  lovely  and  immortal  privilege  of  genius  !  that  can  stretch 
its  hand  out  of  the  wastes  of  time,  thousands  of  years  back, 
and  touch  our  eyelids  with  tears.  In  these  passages  there  is  not 
a  word  which  a  man  of  the  most  matter-of-fact  understanding 
might  not  have  written,  if  he  had  thought  of  it.  But  in  poetry, 
feeling  and  imagination  are  necessary  to  the  perception  and 
presentation  even  of  matters  of  fact.  They,  and  they  only,  see 
what  is  proper  to  be  told,  and  what  to  be  kept  back ;  what  is 
pertinent,  affecting,  and  essential.  Without  feeling,  there  is  a 
want  of  delicacy  and  distinction ;  without  imagination,  there  is 
no  true  embodiment.  In  poets,  even  good  of  their  kind,  but 
without  a  genius  for  narration,  the  action  would  have  been  en- 
cumbered or  diverted  with  ingenious  mistakes.  The  over-con- 
templative would  have  given  us  too  many  remarks ;  the  over- 
lyrical,  a  style  too  much  carried  away  ;  the  over-fanciful,  con- 
ceits and  too  many  similes  ;  the  unimaginative,  the  facts  without 
the  feeling,  and  not  even  those.  We  should  have  been  told 
nothing  of  the  "  grey  chin,"  of  the  house  hearing  them  as  they 
moaned,  or  of  Achilles  gently  putting  the  old  man  aside  ;  much 
less  of  that  yearning  for  his  father,  which  made  the  hero  trem- 
ble in  every  limb.  Writers  without  the  greatest  passion  and 
power  do  not  feel  in  this  way,  nor  are  capable  of  expressing  the 
feeling ;  though  there  is  enough  sensibility  and  imagination  all 
over  the  world  to  enable  mankind  to  be  moved  by  it,  when  the 
poet  strikes  his  truth  into  their  hearts. 

The  reverse  of  imagination  is  exhibited  in  pure  absence  of 


20  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

ideas,  in  commonplaces,  and,  above  all,  in  conventional  meta. 
phor,  or  such  images  and  their  phraseology  as  have  become  the 
common  property  of  discourse  and  writing.  Addison's  Cato  is 
full  of  them. 

Passion  unpitied  and  successless  love 
Plant  daggers  in  my  breast. 

I've  sounded  my  Numidians,  man  by  man, 
And  find  them  ripe  for  a  revolt. 

The  virtuous  Marcia  towers  above  her  sex. 

Of  the  same  kind  is  his  "  courting  the  yoke" — "  distracting  my 
very  heart" — "calling  up  all"  one's  "  father"  in  one's  soul — 
"working  every  nerve" — "copying  a  bright  example;"  in 
short,  the  whole  play,  relieved  now  and  then  with  a  smart  sen- 
tence or  turn  of  words.  The  following  is  a  pregnant  example 
of  plagiarism  and  weak  writing.  It  is  from  another  tragedy  of 
Addison's  time, — the  Mariamne  of  Fenton  : — 

Mariamne,  with  superior  charms, 
Triumphs  o'er  reason :  in  her  look  she  bears 
A  paradise  of  ever-blooming  sweets ; 
Fair  as  the  first  idea  beauty  prints 
In  her  young  lover's  soul ;  a  winning  grace 
Guides  every  gesture,  and  obsequious  love 
Jlttends  on  all  her  steps. 

"  Triumphing  o'er  reason"  is  an  old  acquaintance  of  every- 
body's. "  Paradise  in  her  look  "  is  from  the  Italian  poets  through 
Dryden.  "  Fair  as  the  first  idea,"  &c,  is  from  Milton  spoilt ; 
"  winning  grace"  and  "steps"  from  Milton  and  Tibullus,  both 
spoilt.  Whenever  beauties  are  stolen  by  such  a  writer,  they  are 
sure  to  be  spoilt ;  just  as  when  a  great  writer  borrows,  he 
improves. 

To  come  now  to  Fancy, — she  is  a  younger  sister  of  Imagina- 
tion, without  the  other's  weight  of  thought  and  feeling.  Imagi- 
nation indeed,  purely  so  called,  is  all  feeling  ;  the  feeling  of  the 
subtlest  and  most  affecting  analogies ;  the  perception  of  sympa- 
thies in  the  natures  of  things,  or  in  their  popular  attributes. 
Fancy  is  sporting  with  their  resemblance,  real  or  supposed,  and 
•  ith  ai"v  orirl  fantastical  creations. 


WHAT  IS  POETRY?  2\ 


Rouse  yourself;  and  the  weak  wanton  Cupid 
Shall  from  your  neck  unloose  his  amorous  fold, 
And,  like  a  dew-drop  from  the  lion's  mane, 
Be  shook  to  air. 

Troilus  and  Cressida,  Act  iii.,  sc.  3. 

That  is  imagination  ; — the  strong  mind  sympathizing  with  the 
strong  beast,  and  the  weak  love  identified  with  the  weak  dew- 
drop. 

Oh  ! — and  I  forsooth 
In  love !  I  that  have  been  love's  whip  ! 
A  very  beadle  to  a  humorous  sigh  ! — 
A  domineering  pedant  o'er  the  boy, — 
This  whimpled,  whining,  purblind,  wayward  boy, — 
This  senior-junior,  giant-dwarf,  Dan  Cupid, 
Regent  of  love-rhymes,  lord  of  folded  arms, 
The  anointed  sovereign  of  sighs  and  groans,  &c. 

Love's  Labor's  Lost,  Act  iii.,  sc.  1. 

That  is  fancy  ; — a  combination  of  images  not  m  their  nature 
connected,  or  brought  together  by  the  feeling,  but  by  the  will 
and  pleasure  ;  and  having  just  enough  hold  of  analogy  to  betray 
it  into  the  hands  of  its  smiling  subjector. 

Silent  icicles 
Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  ??won. 

Coleridge's  Frost  at  Midnight. 

That,  again,  is  imagination  ; — analogical  sympathy  ;  and  exqui- 
site of  its  kind  it  is. 

"  You   are  now  sailed  into  the  north  of  my  lady's  opinion  ;  where  you 

will  hang  like  an  icicle  on  a  Dutchman' s  beard,  unless  you  do  redeem  it  by 

some  laudable  attempt." 

Twelfth  Night,  Act  iii ,  sr.  2. 

And  that  is  fancy ; — one  image  capriciously  suggested  by  an- 
other, and  but  half  connected  with  the  subject  of  discourse ; 
nay,  half  opposed  to  it;  for  in  the  gaiety  of  the  speaker's  ani- 
mal spirits,  the  "  Dutchman's  beard"  is  made  to  represent  the 
lady! 

Imagination  belongs  to  Tragedy,  or  the  serious  muse  ;  Fancy 


22  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

to  the  comic.  Macbeth,  Lear,  Paradise  Lost,  the  poem  of 
Dante,  are  full  of  imagination :  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 
and  the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  of  fancy  :  Romeo  and  Juliet,  the 
Tempest,  the  Fairy  Queen,  and  the  Orlando  Furioso,  of  both. 
The  terms  were  formerly  identical,  or  used  as  such  ;  and  neither 
is  the  best  that  might  be  found.  The  term  Imagination  is  too 
confined  :  often  too  material.  It  presents  too  invariably  the  idea 
of  a  solid  body  ; — of  "  images"  in  the  sense  of  the  plaster-cast 
cry  about  the  streets.  Fancy,  on  the  other  hand,  while  it 
means  nothing  but  a  spiritual  image  or  apparition  {<l>avTaa\i,u, 
appearance,  phantom),  has  rarely  that  freedom  from  visibility 
which  is  one  of  the  highest  privileges  of  imagination.  Viola,  in 
Twelfth  Night,  speaking  of  some  beautiful  music,  says  : — 

It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat, 
Where  Love  is  throned. 

In  this  charming  thought,  fancy  and  imagination  are  combined  ; 
yet  the  fancy,  the  assumption  of  Love's  sitting  on  a  throne, 
is  the  image  of  a  solid  body  ;  while  the  imagination,  the  sense  of 
sympathy  between  the  passion  of  love  and  impassioned  music, 
presents  us  no  image  at  aH.  Some  new  term  is  wanting  to 
express  the  more  spiritual  sympathies  of  what  is  called  Imagi- 
nation. 

One  of  the  teachers  of  Imagination  is  Melancholy ;  and  like 
Melancholy,  as  Albert  Durer  has  painted  her,  she  looks  out 
among  the  stars,  and  is  busied  with  spiritual  affinities  and  the 
mysteries  of  the  universe.  Fancy  turns  her  sister's  wizard  in- 
struments into  toys.  She  takes  a  telescope  in  her  hand,  and 
puts  a  mimic  star  on  her  forehead,  and  sallies  forth  as  an  em- 
blem of  astronomy.  Her  tendency  is  to  the  child-like  and  sport- 
ive. She  chases  butterflies,  while  her  sister  takes  flight  with 
angels.  She  is  the  genius  of  fairies,  of  gallantries,  of  fashions ; 
of  whatever  is  quaint  and  light,  showy  and  capricious  ;  of  the 
poetical  part  of  wit.  She  adds  wings  and  feelings  to  the  images 
of  wit;  and  delights  as  much  to  people  nature  with  smiling 
ideal  sympathies,  as  wit  does  to  bring  antipathies  together,  and 
make  them  strike  light  on  absurdity.     Fancy,  however,  is  not 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  23 


incapable  of  sympathy  with  Imagination.  She  is  often  found  in 
her  company  ;  always,  in  the  case  of  the  greatest  poets  ;  often 
in  that  of  less,  though  with  them  she  is  the  greater  favorite. 
Spenser  has  great  imagination  and  fancy  too,  but  more  of  the 
latter  ;  Milton  both  aLso,  the  very  greatest,  but  with  imagination 
predominant ;  Chaucer,  the  strongest  imagination  of  real  life, 
beyond  any  writers  but  Homer,  Dante,  and  Shakspeare,  and  in 
comic  painting  inferior  to  none  ;  Pope  has  hardly  any  imagina- 
tion, but  he  has  a  great  deal  of  fancy  ;  Coleridge  little  fancy, 
but  imagination  exquisite.  Shakspeare  alone,  of  all  poets  that 
ever  lived,  enjoyed  the  regard  of  both  in  equal  perfection.  A 
whole  fairy  poem  of  his  writing  will  be  found  in  the  present 
volume.  See  also  his  famous  description  of  Queen  Mab  and  her 
equipage,  in  Romeo  and  Juliet : — 

Her  waggon-spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs  ; 

The  cover,  of  the  wings  of  grasshoppers ; 

Her  traces  of  the  smallest  spider's  web ; 

Her  collars  of  the  moonshine's  watery  beams,  &c. 

That  is  Fancy,  in  its  playful  creativeness.  As  a  small  but 
pretty  rival  specimen,  less  known,  take  the  description  of  a 
fairy  palace  from  Drayton's  Nymphidia : — 

This  palace  standeth  in  the  air, 
By  necromancy  placed  there, 
That  it  no  tempest  needs  to  fear, 

Which  way  soe'er  it  blow  it : 
And  somewhat  southward  tow'rd  the  noon, 
Whence  lies  a  way  up  to  the  moon, 
And  thence  the  Fairy  can  as  soon 

Pass  to  the  earth  below  it. 
The  walls  of  spiders'  legs  are  made, 
Well  morticed  and  finely  laid  : 
He  was  the  master  of  his  trade, 

It  curiously  that  builded : 
The  windows  of  the  eyes  of  cats  : 


(because  they  see  best  at  night) 


And  for  the  roof  instead  of  slats 
Is  cover'd  with  the  skins  of  bats 
With  moonshine  that  are  gilded. 


24  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 


Here  also  is  a  fairy  bed,  very  delicate,  from  the  same  poet's 
Muse's  Elysium. 

Of  leaves  of  roses,  white  and  red, 
Shall  be  the  covering  of  the  bed ; 
The  curtains,  vallens,  tester  all, 
Shall  be  the  flower  imperial ; 
And  for  the  fringe  it  all  along 
With  azure  hare-bells  shall  be  hung. 
Of  lilies  shall  the  pillows  be 
With  down  stuft  of  the  butterfly. 

Of  fancy,  so  full  of  gusto  as  to  border  on  imagination,  Sir  John 
Suckling,  in  his  "  Ballad  on  a  Wedding,"  has  given  some  of  the 
most  playful  and  charming  specimens  in  the  language.  They 
glance  like  twinkles  in  the  eye,  or  cherries  bedewed  • 

Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat, 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  fear1  d  the  light ; 
But  oh  !  she  dances  such  a  way ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter  day, 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 


'.-,' 


It  is  very  daring,  and  has  a  sort  of  playful  grandeur,  to  compare 
a  lady's  dancing  with  the  sun.  But  as  the  sun  has  it  all  to  him- 
self in  the  heavens,  so  she,  in  the  blaze  of  her  beauty,  on  earth. 
This  is  imagination  fairly  displacing  fancy.  The  following  has 
enchanted  everybody : — 

Her  lips  were  red,  and  one  was  thin, 
Compared  with  that  was  next  her  chin, 
Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly. 

Every  reader  has  stolen  a  kiss  at  that  lip,  gay  or  grave. 

With  regard  to  the  principle  of  Variety  in  Uniformity  by 
which  verse  ought  to  be  modulated,  and  one-ness  of  impression 
diversely  produced,  it  has  been  contended  by  some,  that  Poetry 
need  not  be  written  in  verse  at  all ;  that  prose  is  as  good  a  me- 
dium, provided  poetry  be  conveyed  through  it;  and  that  to  think 
otherwise  is  to  confound  letter  with  spirit,  or  form  with  essence. 
But  the  opinion  is  a  prosaical  mistake.    Fitness  and  unfitness  for 


WHAT  13  POETRY  ?  2o 


song,  or  metrical  excitement,  just  make  all  the  difference  between 
a  poetical  and  prosaical  subject ;  and  the  reason  why  verse  is 
necessary  to  the  form  of  poetry,  is,  that  the  perfection  of  poetical 
spirit  demands  it;  that  the  circle  of  enthusiasm,  beauty,  and 
power,  is  incomplete  without  it.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  a 
poet  can  never  show  himself  a  poet  in  prose  ;  but  that,  being  one, 
his  desire  and  necessity  will  be  to  write  in  verse;  and  that,  if  he 
were  unable  to  do  so,  he  would  not,  and  could  not,  deserve  his 
title.  Verse  to  the  true  poet  is  no  clog.  It  is  idly  called  a 
trammel  and  a  difficulty.  It  is  a  help.  It  springs  from  the 
same  enthusiasm  as  the  rest  of  his  impulses,  and  is  necessary  to 
their  satisfaction  and  effect.  Verse  is  no  more  a  clog  than  the 
condition  of  rushing  upward  is  a  clog  to  fire,  or  than  the  round- 
ness and  order  of  the  globe  we  live  on  is  a  clog  to  the  freedom 
and  variety  that  abound  within  its  sphere.  Verse  is  no  domi- 
nator  over  the  poet,  except  inasmuch  as  the  bond  is  reciprocal, 
and  the  poet  dominates  over  the  verse.  They  are  lovers  play- 
fully challenging  each  other's  rule,  and  delighted  equally  to  rule 
and  to  obey.  Verse  is  the  final  proof  to  the  post  that  his  mastery 
over  his  art  is  complete.  It  is  the  shutting  up  of  his  powers  in 
"  measureful  content ;"  the  answer  of  form  to  his  spirit ;  of  strength 
and  ease  to  his  guidance.  It  is  the  willing  action,  the  proud  and 
fiery  happiness,  of  the  winged  steed  on  whose  back  he  has  vaulted, 

To  witch  the  world  with  wondrous  horsemanship. 

Verse,  in  short,  is  that  finishing,  and  rounding,  and  "  tuneful 
planetting"  of  the  poet's  creations,  which  is  produced  of  neces- 
sity by  the  smooth  tendencies  of  their  energy  or  inward  working, 
and  the  harmonious  dance  into  which  they  are  attracted  round 
the  orb  of  the  beautiful.  Poetry,  in  its  complete  sympathy  with 
beauty,  must,  of  necessity,  leave  no  sense  of  the  beautiful,  and 
no  power  over  its  forms,  unmanifested  ;  and  verse  flows  as 
inevitably  from  this  condition  of  its  integrity,  as  other  laws  of 
proportion  do  from  any  other  kind  of  embodiment  of  beauty  (say 
that  of  the  human  figure),  however  free  and  various  the  move- 
ments may  be  that  play  within  their  limits.  What  great  poet 
(  ver  wrote  his  poems  in  prose  ?  or  where  is  a  good  prose  poem, 
of  any  length,  to  be  found  ?     The  poetry  of  the  Bible  is  under- 


2G  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

stood  to  be  in  verse,  in  the  original.  Mr.  Hazlitt  has  said  a 
good  word  for  those  prose  enlargements  of  some  fine  old  song, 
which  are  known  by  the  name  of  Ossian  ;  and  in  passages  they 
deserve  what  he  said  ;  but  he  judiciously  abstained  from  saying 
anything  about  the  form.  Is  Gesner's  D°ath  of  Abel  a  poem  ? 
or  Hervey's  Meditations  ?  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  has  been 
called  one ;  and,  undoubtedly,  Bunyan  had  a  genius  which 
tended  to  make  him  a  poet,  and  one  of  no  mean  order;  and  yet 
it  was  of  as  ungenerous  and  low  a  sort  as  was  compatible  with 
so  lofty  an  affinity  ;  and  this  is  the  reason  why  it  stopped  where 
it  did.  He  had  a  craving  after  the  beautiful,  but  not  enough  of 
it  in  himself  to  echo  to  its  music.  On  the  other  hand,  the  pos- 
session of  the  beautiful  will  not  be  sufficient  without  force  to 
utter  it.  The  author  of  Telemachus  had  a  soul  full  of  beauty 
and  tenderness.  He  was  not  a  man  who,  if  he  had  had  a  wife 
and  children,  would  have  run  away  from  them,  as  Bunyan's 
hero  did,  to  get  a  place  by  himself  in  heaven.  He  was  "a  little 
lower  than  the  angels,"  like  our  own  Bishop  Jewells  and  Berke- 
leys ;  and  yet  he  was  no  poet.  He  was  too  delicately,  not  to 
say  feebly,  absorbed  in  his  devotions,  to  join  in  the  energies  of 
the  seraphic  choir. 

Every  poet,  then,  is  a  versifier;  every  fine  poet  an  excellent 
one  ;  and  he  is  the  best  whose  verse  exhibits  the  Greatest 
amount  of  strength,  sweetness,  straightforwardness,  unsuperflu- 
ousness,  variety,  and  one-ness  ;  one-ness,  that  is  to  say,  consist- 
ency, in  the  general  impression,  metrical  and  moral ;  and  variety, 
or  every  pertinent  diversity  of  tone  and  rhythm,  in  the  process, 
Strength  is  the  muscle  of  verse,  and  shows  itself  in  the  numbei 
and  force  of  the  marked  syllables  ;   as, 

Sonorous  metal  blowing  martial  sounds. 

Paradise  last. 

Behemoth,  biggest  born  of  earth,  upheav'd 
His  vastness. 

Id. 

Blow  winds  and  crack  your  cheeks  ?  rage  !  blow  ! 

You  cataracts  and  hurricanoes,  spout, 

Till  you  have  drench'd  our  steeples,  drown'd  the  cocks  • 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  27 


You  sulphurous  and  thought-executing  fires, 
Vaunt  couriers  of  oak-cleaving  thunderbolts, 
Singe  my  white  head  !  and  thou,  all-shaking  th tinder, 
Strike  flat  the  thick  rotundity  o'  the  world  ! 

Lear. 

Unexpected  locations  of  the  accent  double  this  force,  and 
render  it  characteristic  of  passion  and  abruptness.  And  here 
comes  into  play  the  reader's  corresponding  fineness  of  ear,  and 
his  retardations  and  accelerations  in  accordance  with  those  of 
the  poet : — 

Then  in  the  keyhole  turns 
The  intricate  wards,  and  every  bolt  and  bar 
Unfastens.     On  a  sudden  open  fly 
.    With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  sound 
The  infernal  doors,  and  on  their  hinges  grate 
Harsh  thunder. 

Par.  Lost,  Book  II. 

Abominable — unutterable — and  worse 
Than  fables  yet  have  feigned. 


Wallowing  unwieldy — enormous  in  their  gait. 


Id. 


Id. 


Of  unusual  passionate  accent,  there  is  an  exquisite  specimen 
in  the  Fairy  Queen,  where  Una  is  lamenting  her  desertion  by 
the  Red-Cross  Knight : — 

But  he,  my  lion,  and  my  noble  lord, 
How  does  he  find  in  cruel  heart  to  hate 
Her  that  him  lov'd,  and  ever  most  ador'd 
As  the  gbd  of  my  life  1    Why  hath  he  me  abhorr'd  ? 

See  the  whole  stanza,  with  a  note  upon  it,  in  the  present 
volume. 

The  abuse  of  strength  is  harshness  and  heaviness ;  the  re- 
verse of  it  is  weakness.  There  is  a  noble  sentiment, — it  ap- 
pears both  in  Daniel's  and  Sir  John  Beaumont's  works,  but  is 
most  probably  the  latter's, — which  is  a  perfect  outrage  ot 
strength  in  the  sound  of  the  words : — 


28  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 


Only  the  firmest  and  the  consta?ifst  hearts 
God  sets  to  act  the  stoufst  and  hardest  parts. 

Stoutest  and  constant'st  for  "stoutest"  and  "  most  constant !" 
It  is  as  bad  as  the  intentional  crabbedness  of  the  line  in  Hudi- 
bras  ; 

He  that  hangs  or  beats  onfs  brains, 
The  devil's  in  hirn  if  he  feigns. 

Beats  out's  brains,  for  "  beats  out  his  brains."  Of  heaviness, 
Davenant's  "  Gondibert "  is  a  formidable  specimen,  almost 
throughout : — 


& 


With  silence  (order's  help,  and  mark  of  care) 

They  chide  that  noise  which  heedless  youth  affect; 
Still  course  for  use,  for  health  they  clearness  wear, 

And  save  in  well-fix'd  arms,  all  nk-eness  check'd. 
They  thought,  those  that,  unarmed,  expos' d  frail  life, 

But  naked  nature  valiantly  betray'd  ; 
Who  was,  though  naked,  safe,  till  pride  made  strife, 

But  made  defence  must  use,  now  danger's  made. 

And  so  he  goes  digging  and  lumbering  on,  like  a  heavy 
preacher  thumping  the  pulpit  in  italics,  and  spoiling  many  in- 
genious reflections. 

Weakness  in  versification  is  want  of  accent  and  emphasis. 
It  generally  accompanies  prosaicalness,  and  is  the  consequence 
of  weak  thoughts,  and  of  the  affectation  of  a  certain  well-bred 
enthusiasm.  The  writings  of  the  late  Mr.  Hayley  were  re- 
markable for  it ;  and  it  abounds  among  the  lyrical  imitators  of 
Cowley,  and  the  whole  of  what  is  called  our  French  school  of 
poetry,  when  it  aspired  above  its  wit  and  "sense."  It  some- 
times breaks  down  in  a  horrible,  hopeless  manner,  as  if  giving 
way  at  the  first  step.  The  following  ludicrous  passage  in  Con- 
greve,  intended  to  be  particularly  fine,  contains  an  instance  : — 

And  lo  !  Silence  himself  is  here  ; 
Methinks  I  see  the  midnight  god  appear. 
In  all  his  downy  pomp  array'd, 
Behold  the  reverend  shade. 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  29 


An  ancient  sigh  he  sits  upon  !  !  ! 
Whose  memory  of  sound  is  long  since  gone, 
And  purposely  annihilated  for  his  throne  !  ! 

Ode  on  the  singing  of  J\Irs.  Arabella  Hunt. 

See  also  the  would-be  enthusiasm  of  Addison  about  music  : 

For  ever  consecrate  the  day 
To  music  and  Cecilia  ; 
Music,  the  greatest  good  that  mortals  know, 
And  all  of  heaven  we  have  below, 
Music  can  noble  hints  impart  !!  ! 

It  is  observable  that  the  unpoetic  masters  of  ridicule  are  apt 
to  make  the  most  ridiculous  mistakes,  when  they  come  to  affect 
a  strain  higher  than  the  one  they  are  accustomed  to.  But  no 
wonder.     Their  habits  neutralize  the  enthusiasm  it  requires. 

Sweetness,  though  not  identical  with  smoothness,  any  more 
than  feeling  is  with  sound,  always  includes  it;  and  smoothness 
is  a  thing  so  little  to  be  regarded  for  its  own  sake,  and  indeed  so 
worthless  in  poetry  but  for  some  taste  of  sweetness,  that  I  have 
not  thought  necessary  to  mention  it  by  itself;  though  such  an 
all-in-all  in  versification  was  it  regarded  not  a  hundred  vears 
back,  that  Thomas  Warton  himself,  an  idolator  of  Spenser,  ven- 
tured to  wish  the  following  line  in  the  Fairy  Queen, 

And  was  admired  much  of  fools,  ivbmen,  and  boys — 

altered  to 

And  was  admired  much  of  women,  fools,  and  boys — 

thus  destroying  the  fine  scornful  emphasis  on  the  first  syllable  of 
"women!"  (an  ungallant  intimation,  by  the  way,  against  the 
fair  sex,  very  startling  in  this  no  less  woman-loving  than  great 
poet.)  Any  poetaster  can  be  smooth.  Smoothness  abounds  in 
all  small  poets,  as  sweetness  does  in  the  greater.  Sweetness  is 
the  smoothness  of  grace  and  delicacy, — of  the  sympathy  with 
the  pleasing  and  lovely.  Spenser  is  full  of  it, — Shakspeare — 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher — Coleridge.  Of  Spenser's  and  Cole- 
ridge's versification  it  is  the  prevailing  characteristic.  Its  main 
secrets  are  a  smooth  nr*™-*  -sion  between  varietv  and  sameness- 


30  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

and  a  voluptuous  sense  of  the  continuous, — "linked  sweetness 
long  drawn  out."  Observe  the  first  and  last  lines  of  the  stanza 
in  the  Fairy  Queen,  describing  a  shepherd  brushing  away  the 
gnats ; — the  open  and  the  close  e's  in  the  one, 

As  gentle  shepherd  in  sweet  eventide — 

and  the  repetition  of  the  word  oft,  and  the  fall  from  the  vowel 
a,  into  the  two  u's  in  the  other, — 

She  brusheth  oft,  and  oft  doth  mar  their  murmurings. 

So  in  his  description  of  two  substances  in  the  handling,  both 
equally  smooth  ; — 

Each  smoother  seems  than  each,  and  each  than  each  seems  smoother. 

An  abundance  of  examples  from  his  poetry  will  be  found  in 
the  volume  before  us.  His  beauty  revolves  on  itself  with  con- 
scious loveliness.  And  Coleridge  is  worthy  to  be  named  with 
him,  as  the  reader  will  see  also,  and  has  seen  already.  Let 
him  take  a  sample  meanwhile  from  the  poem  called  the  Day- 
Dre-am  !  Observe  both  the  variety  and  sameness  of  the  vowels, 
and  the  repetition  of  the  soft  consonants  : — 

My  eyes  make  pictures  when  they're  shut : — 

I  see  a  fountain,  large  and  fair, 
A  willow  and  a  ruin'd  hut, 

And  thee  and  me  and  Mary  there. 
O  Mary  !  make  thy  gentle  lap  our  pillow  ; 
Bend  o'er  us,  like  a  bower,  my  beautiful  green  willow. 

By  Slraightforivardness  is  meant  the  flow  of  words  in  their 
natural  order,  free  alike  from  mere  prose,  and  from  those  inver- 
sions to  which  bad  poets  recur  in  order  to  escape  the  charge  of 
prose,  but  chiefly  to  accommodate  their  rhymes.  In  Shadwell's 
play  of  Psyche,  Venus  gives  the  sisters  of  the  heroine  an  an- 
swer, of  which  the  following  is  the  entire  substance,  literally, 
in  so  many  words.  The  author  had  nothing  better  for  her  to 
say: 

"  I  receive  your  prayers  with  kindness,  and  will  give  success  to  your 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  31 


nopes.  I  have  seen,  with  anger,  mankind  adore  your  sister's  beauty  and 
deplore  her  scorn  :  which  they  shall  do  no  more.  For  I'll  so  resent  their 
idolatry,  as  shall  content  your  wishes  to  the  full." 

Now  in  default  of  all  imagination,  fancy,  and  expression, 
how  was  the  writer  to  turn  these  words  into  poetry  or  rhyme  ? 
Simply  by  diverting  them  from  their  natural  order,  and  twisting 
the  halves  of  the  sentences  each  before  the  other. 

With  kindness  I  your  prayers  receive, 

And  to  your  hopes  success  will  give. 
I  have,  with  anger,  seen  mankind  adore 
Your  sister's  beauty  and  her  scorn  deplore  ; 

Which  they  shall  do  no  more. 
For  their  idolatry  I'll  so  resent, 
As  shall  your  wishes  to  the  full  content !  ! 

This  is  just  as  if  a  man  were  to  allow  that  there  was  no 
poetry  in  the  words,  "How  do  you  find  yourself?"  "Very 
well,  I  thank  you  ;"  but  to  hold  them  inspired,  if  altered  into 

Yourself  how  do  you  find  ? 
Very  well,  you  I  thank. 

It  is  true,  the  best  writers  in  Shadwell's  age  were  addicted  to 
these  inversions,  partly  for  their  own  reasons,  as  far  as  rhyme 
was  concerned,  and  partly  because  they  held  it  to  be  writing  in 
the  classical  and  Virgilian  manner.  What  has  since  been 
called  Artificial  Poetry  was  then  flourishing,  in  contradistinction 
to  Natural ;  or  Poetry  seen  chiefly  through  art  and  books,  and 
not  in  its  first  sources.  But  when  the  artificial  poet  partook  of 
the  natural,  or,  in  other  words,  was  a  true  poet  after  his  kind, 
his  best  was  always  written  in  the  most  natural  and  straight- 
forward manner.  Hear  Shadwell's  antagonist  Dryden.  Not  a 
particle  of  inversion,  beyond  what  is  used  for  the  sake  of  em. 
phasis  in  common  discourse,  and  this  only  in  one  line  (the  last 
but  three),  is  to  be  found  in  his  immortal  character  of  the  Duke 
of  Buckingham  : — 

A  man  so  various,  that  he  seemed  to  be 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome : 


32  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

Stiff  in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong, 
Was  everything  by  starts,  and  nothing  long  ; 
But  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon 
Was  chemist,  fiddler,  statesman,  and  buffoon  : 
Then  all  for  women,  rhyming,  dancing,  drinking, 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thinking 
Blest  madman!  who  could  every  hour  employ 
With  something  new  to  wish  or  to  enjoy  ! 
Railing  and  praising  were  his  usual  themes; 
And  both,  to  show  his  judgment,  in  extremes  : 
So  over  violent,  or  over  civil, 
That  every  man  with  him  was  god  or  devil. 
In  squandering  wealth  was  his  peculiar  art; 
JVothing  went  unrewarded,  but  desert. 
Beggar'd  by  fools,  whom  still  he  found  too  late, 
He  had  his  jest,  and  they  had  his  estate. 

Inversion  itself  was  often  turned  into  a  grace  in  these  poets, 
and  may  be  in  others,  by  the  power  of  being  superior  to  it ; 
using  it  only  with  a  classical  air,  and  as  a  help  lying  next  to 
them,  instead  of  a  salvation  which  they  are  obliged  to  seek.  In 
jesting  passages  also  it  sometimes  gave  the  rhyme  a  turn  agree- 
ably wilful,  or  an  appearance  of  choosing  what  lay  in  its  way ; 
as  if  a  man  should  pick  up  a  stone  to  throw  at  another's  head, 
where  a  less  confident  foot  would  have  stumbled  over  it.  Such 
is  Dr}'den's  use  of  the  word  might — the  mere  sign  of  a  tense — 
in  his  pretended  ridicule  of  the  monkish  practice  of  rising  to 
sing  psalms  in  the  night. 

And  much  they  griev'cl  to  see  so  nigh  their  hall 
The.bird  that  warn'd  St.  Peter  of  his  fall ; 
That  he  should  raise  his  mitred  crest  on  high, 
And  clap  his  wings  and  call  his  family 
To  sacred  rites;  and  vex  th'  ethereal  powers 
With  midnight  matins  at  uncivil  hours  ; 
Nay  more,  his  quiet  neighbors  should  molest 
Just  in  the  sweetness  of  their  morning  rest. 

(What  a  line  full  of  "  another  doze  "  is  that !) 

Beast  of  a  bird,  !  supinely,  when  he  might 
Lie  snug  and  sleep,  to  rise  before  the  light! 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  33 

What  if  his  dull  forefathers  used  that  cry  ? 
Could  he  not  let  a  bad  example  die  ? 

I  the  more  gladly  quote  instances  like  those  of  Dryden,  to 
illustrate  the  points  in  question,  because  they  are  specimens  of 
the  very  highest  kind  of  writing  in  the  heroic  couplet  upon  sub- 
jects not  heroical.  As  to  prosaicalness  in  general,  it  is  sometimes 
indulged  in  by  young  writers  on  the  plea  of  its  being  natural ; 
but  this  is  a  mere  confusion  of  triviality  with  propriety,  and  is 
usually  the  result  of  indolence. 

Unsuperjluousness  is  rather  a  matter  of  style  in  general,  than 
of  the  sound   and  order  of  words :  and  yet   versification   is  so 
much  strengthened  by  it,  and  so  much  weakened  by  its  opposite, 
that  it  could  not  but  come  within  the  category  of  its  requisites. 
When  superfluousness  of  words  is  not  occasioned  by  overflowing 
animal  spirits,   as  in  Beaumont  and   Fletcher,   or   by  the  very 
genius  of  luxury,  as  in  Spenser  (in  which  cases  it  is  enrichment 
as  well  as  overflow),  there  is  no  worse  sign  for  a  poet  altogether, 
except  pure  barrenness.     Every  word  that  could  be  taken  away 
from  a  poem,  unreferable  to  either  of  the  above  reasons  for  it,  is 
a  damage  ;   and  many  such  are  death  ;   for  there  is  nothing  that 
posterity  seems  so  determined  to  resent  as  this  want  of  respect 
for  its  time  and  trouble.     The  world  is  too  rich  in  books  to  en- 
dure   it.     Even  true   poets  have  died   of  this    Writer's    Evil. 
Trifling  ones  have  survived,  with  scarcely  any  pretensions  but 
the  terseness  of  their  trifles.     What  hope  can  remain  for  wordy 
mediocrity  ?     Let  the  discerning  reader  take  up  any  poem,  pen 
in  hand,  for  the  purpose  of  discovering  how  many  words  he  can 
strike  out  of  it  that  give  him  no  requisite  ideas,  no  relevant  ones 
that  he  cares  for,  and  no  reasons  for  the  rhyme  beyond   its  ne- 
cessity, and  he  will  see  what  blot  and  havoc   he  will  make  in 
many  an    admired   production  of  its   day, — what  marks  of  its 
inevitable  fate.    Bulky  authors  in  particular,  however  safe  they 
may  think  themselves,  would  do  well  to  consider  what  parts  of 
their  cargo  they  might  dispense  with  in   their  proposed  voyage 
down  the  gulfs  of  time ;  for  many  a  gallant  vessel,  thought  in- 
destructible in  its  age,  has  perished  ; — many  a  load  of  words, 
expected  to  be  in  eternal  demand,  gone  to  join   the  wrecks  of 

4 


34  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

self-love,  or  rotted  in  the  warehouses  of  change  and  vicissitude. 
I  have  said  the  more  on  this  point,  because  in  an  age  when  the 
true  inspiration  has  undoubtedly  been  re-awakened  by  Coleridge 
and  his  fellows,  and  we  have  so  many  new  poets  coming  for- 
ward,  it  may  be  as  well  to  give  a  general  warning  against  that 
tendency  to  an  accumulation  and  ostentation  of  thoughts,  which 
is  meant  to  be  a  refutation  in  full  of  the  pretensions  of  all 
poetry  less  cogitabund,  whatever  may  be  the  requirements  of  its 
class.  Young  writers  should  bear  in  mind,  that  even  some  of 
the  very  best  materials  for  poetry  are  not  poetry  built ;  and  that 
the  smallest  marble  shrine,  of  exquisite  workmanship,  outvalues 
all  that  architect  ever  chipped  away.  Whatever  can  be  dis- 
pensed with  is  rubbish. 

Variety  in  versification  consists  in  whatsoever  can  be  done  for 
the  prevention  of  monotony,  by  diversity  of  stops  and  cadences, 
distribution  of  emphasis,  and  retardation  and  acceleration  of 
time  ;  for  the  whole  real  secret  of  versification  is  a  musical 
secret,  and  is  not  attainable  to  any  vital  effect,  save  by  the  ear 
of  genius.  All  the  more  knowledge  of  feet  and  numbers,  of 
accent  and  quantity,  will  no  more  impart  it,  than  a  knowledge 
of  the  "  Guide  to  Music"  will  make  a  Beethoven  or  a  Paisiello. 
It  is  a  matter  of  sensibility  and  imagination;  of  the  beautiful  in 
poetical  passion,  accompanied  by  musical ;  of  the  imperative 
necessity  for  a  pause  here,  and  a  cadence  there,  and  a  quicker 
or  slower  utterance  in  this  or  that  place,  created  by  analogies 
of  sound  with  sense,  by  the  fluctuations  of  feeling,  by  the  de- 
mands of  the  gods  and  graces  that  visit  the  poet's  harp,  as  the 
winds  visit  that  of  iEolus.  The  same  time  and  quantity  which 
are  occasioned  by  the  spiritual  part  of  this  secret,  thus  become 
its  formal  ones, — not  feet  and  syllables,  long  and  short,  iambics 
or  trochees ;  which  are  the  reduction  of  it  to  its  less  than  dry 
bones.  You  might  get,  for  instance,  not  only  ten  and  eleven, 
but  thirteen  or  fourteen  syllables  into  a  rhyming,  as  well  as 
blank,  heroical  verse,  if  time  and  the  feeling  permitted  ;  and  in 
irregular  measure  this  is  often  done ;  just  as  musicians  put 
twenty  notes  in  a  bar  instead  of  two,  quavers  instead  of  minims, 
according  as  the  feeling  they  are  expressing  impels  them  to  fill 
up  the  time  with  short  and  hurried  notes,  or  with  long ;  or  as 


WHAT  IS  POETRY?  35 


the  choristers  in  a  cathedral  retard  or  precipitate  the  words  of 
the  chaunt,  according  as  the  quantity  of  its  notes,  and  the  colon 
which  divides  the  verse  of  the  psalm,  conspire  to  demand  it. 
Had  the  moderns  borne  this  principle  in  mind  when  they  settled 
the  prevailing  systems  of  verse,  instead  of  learning  them,  as 
they  appear  to  have  done,  from  the  first  drawling  and  one-sylla- 
bled notation  of  the  church  hymns,  we  should  have  retained  all 
the  advantages  of  the  more  numerous  versification  of  the  an- 
cients, without  being  compelled  to  fancy  that  there  was  no  alter- 
native for  us  between  our  syllabioal  uniformity  and  the  hexame- 
ters or  other  special  forms  unsuited  to  our  tongues.  But  to 
leave  this  question  alone,  we  will  present  the  reader  with  a  few 
sufficing  specimens  of  the  difference  between  monotony  and 
variety  in  versification,  first  from  Pope,  Dryden,  and  Milton, 
and  next  from  Gay  and  Coleridge.  The  following  is  the  boasted 
melody  of  the  nevertheless  exquisite  poet  of  the  "  Rape  of  the 
Lock," — exquisite  in  his  wit  and  iancy,  though  not  in  his  num- 
bers. The  reader  will  observe  that  it  is  literally  see-saw,  like 
the  rising  and  falling  of  a  plank,  with  a  light  person  at  one  end 
who  is  jerked  up  in  the  briefer  time,  and  a  heavier  one  who  is 
set  down  more  leisurely  at  the  other.  It  is  in  the  otherwise 
charming  description  of  the  heroine  of  that  poem  : — 

On  her  white  breast — a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 
Which  Jews  might  kiss — and  infidels  adore  ; 
Her  lively  looks — a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick  as  her  eyes — and  as  unfix'd  as  those  ; 
Favors  to  none — to  all  she  smiles  extends, 
Oft  she  rejects — but  never  once  offends ; 
Bright  as  the  sun — her  eyes  the  gazers  strike, 
And  like  the  sun — they  shine  on  all  alike  ; 
Yet  graceful  ease — and  sweetness  void  of  pride, 
Might  hide  her  faults — if  bolles  had  faults  to  hide  ; 
If  to  her  share — some  female  errors  fall, 
Look  on  her  face — and  you'll  forget  them  all. 

Compare  with  this  the  description  of  Iphigenia  in  one  of  Dry- 
den's  stories  from  Boccaccio  : — 

It  happen'd — on  a  summer's  holiday,  "] 

That  to  the  greenwood  shade — he  took  his  way,  > 

For  Cymon  shunn'd  the  church — and  used  not  much  to  pray,  J 


36  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 

His  quarter-staff — which  he  could  ne'er  forsake, 
Hung  half  before — and  half  behind  his  back  : 
He  trudg'd  along — not  knowing  what  he  sought, 
And  whistled  as  he  went — for  want  of  thought. 

By  chance  conducted — or  by  thirst  constrain'd, 

The  deep  recesses  of  a  grove  he  gain'd  ; — 

Where — in  a  plain  defended  by  a  wood,  "j 

Crept  through  the  matted  grass — a  crystal  flood,    > 

By  which — an  alabaster  fountain  stood  ;  J 

And  on  the  margent  of  the  fount  was  laid — 

Attended  by  her  slaves — a  sleeping  maid  ; 

Like  Dian  and  her  nymphs — when,  tir'd  with  sport, 

To  rest  by  cool  Eurotas  they  resort. — 

The  dame  herself — the  goddess  well  expressM 

Not  more  distinguished  by  her  purple  vest— 

Than  by  the  charming  features  of  the  face — 

And  e'en  in  slumber — a  superior  grace  : 

Her  comely  limbs — compos'd  with  decent  care,  "> 

Her  body  shaded — by  a  light  cymarr,  > 

Her  bosom  to  the  view — was  only  bare ;  J 

Where  two  beginning  paps  were  scarcely  spied — 

For  yet  their  places  were  but  signified. — 

The  fanning  wind  upon  her  bosom  blows —  i 

To  meet  the  fanning  wind — the  bosom  rose  ;  > 

The  fanning  wind — and  purling  stream — continue  her  repose.  J 

For  a  further  variety  take,  from  the  same  author's  Theodore 
and  Honoria,  a  passage  in  which  the  couplets  are  run  one  into 
the  other,  and  all  of  it  modulated,  like  the  former,  according  to 
the  feeling  demanded  by  the  occasion  ; 

Whilst  listening  to  the  murmuring  leaves  he  stood — 
More  than  a  mile  immers'd  within  the  wood — 
At  once  the  wind  was  laid.] — The  whispering  sound 
Was  dumb.  | — A  rising  earthquake  rock'd  the  ground. 
With  deeper  brown  the  grove  was  overspread — ^ 
A  sudden  horror  seiz'd  his  giddy  head —  > 

And  his  ears  tinkled — and  his  color  fled.  J 

Nature  was  in  alarm  — Some  danger  nigh 
Seem'd  threaten'd — though  unseen  to  mortal  eye. 
Unus'd  to  fear — he  summon'd  all  his  soul, 
And  stood  collected  in  hin.self — and  whole  : 
Not  long. — 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  37 


But  for  a  crowning  specimen  of  variety  of  pause  and  accent, 
apart  from  emotion,  nothing  can  surpass  the  account,  in  Para- 
dise  Lost,  of  the  Devil's  search  for  an  accomplice  ; — 

There  was  a  place, 
Now  not — though  Sin — not  Time — first  wrought  the  chang-t 
Where  Tigris — at  the  foot  of  Paradise, 
Into  a  gulf — shot  under  ground — till  part 
Rose  up  a  fountain  by  the  Tree  of  Life. 
In  with  the  river  sunk — and  with  it  rbse 
Satan — involv'd  in  rising  mist — then  sought 
Where  to  lie  hid. — Sea  he  had  search'd — and  land 
From  Eden  over  Pdntus — and  the  pool 
Maeotis — up  beyond  the  river  Ob  ; 
Downward  as  far  antarctic ; — and  in  length 
West  from  Orontes — to  the  ocean  barr'd 
At  Darien — thence  to  the  land  where  flows 
Ganges  and  Indus. — Thus  the  orb  he  roam'd 
With  narrow  search  ; — and  with  inspection  deep 
Consider'd  every  creature — which  of  all 
Most  opportune  mia;ht  serve  his  wiles — and  found 
The  serpent — subtlest  beast  of  all  the  field. 

If  the  reader  cast  his  eye  again  over  this  passage,  he  will  not 
find  a  verse  in  it  which  is  not  varied  and  harmonized  in  the  most 
remarkable  manner.  Let  him  notice  in  particular  that  curious 
balancing  of  the  lines  in  the  sixth  and  tenth  verses  : — 

In  with  the  river  sunk,  &c, 

and 

Up  beyond  the  river  Ob. 

It  might,  indeed,  be  objected  to  the  versification  of  Milton, 
that  it  exhibits  too  constant  a  perfection  of  this  kind.  -It  some- 
times forces  upon  us  too  great  a  sense  of  consciousness  on  the 
part  of  the  composer.  We  miss  the  first  sprightly  runnings  of 
verse, — the  ease  and  sweetness  of  spontaneity.  Milton,  I  think, 
also  too  often  condenses  weight  into  heaviness. 

Thus  much  concerning  the  chief  of  our  two  most  popular 
measures.     The  other,  called  octosyllabic,  or   the   measure  of 


38  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 


eight  syllables,  offered  such  facilities  for  namby-pamby,  that  it 
had  become  a  jest  as  early  as  the  time  of  Shakspeare,  who 
makes  Touchstone  call  it  the  "  butterwoman's  rate  to  market," 
and  the  "  very  false  gallop  of  verses."  It  has  been  advocated, 
in  opposition  to  the  heroic  measure,  upon  the  ground  that  ten 
syllables  lead  a  man  into  epithets  and  other  superfluities,  while 
eight  syllables  compress  him  into  a  sensible  and  pithy  gentle- 
man. But  the  heroic  measure  laughs  at  it.  So  far  from  com- 
pressing, it  converts  one  line  into  two,  and  sacrifices  everything 
to  the  quick  and  importunate  return  of  the  rhyme.  With  Dry- 
den,  compare  Gay,  even  in  the  strength  of  Gay, — 

The  wind  was  high — the  window  shakes ; 
With  sudden  start  the  miser  wakes  ; 
Along  the  silent  room  he  stalks, 

(A   miser  never    "stalks;"    but   a  rhyme  was   desired  for 
"walks") 

Looks  back,  and  trembles  as  he  walks : 
Each  lock  and  every  bolt  he  tries, 
In  every  creek  and  corner  pries. 
Then  opes  the  chest  with  treasure  stor'd, 
And  stands  in  rapture  o'er  his  hoard ; 

("  Hoard"    and    "  treasure    stor'd"    are   just    made    for  one 
another) 

But  now,  with  sudden  qualms  possess'd, 
He  wrings  his  hands,  he  beats  his  breast ; 
By  conscience  stung,  he  wildly  stares, 
And  thus  his  guilty  soul  declares. 

And  so  he  denounces  his  gold,  as  miser  never  denounced  it  ; 
and  sighs,  because 

Virtue  resides  on  earth  no  more  ! 

Coleridge  saw  the  mistake  which  had  been  made  with  regard 
to  this  measure,  and  restored  it  to  the  beautiful  freedom  of  which 
it  was  capable,  by  calling  to  mind  the  liberties  allowed  its  old 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  39 


musical  professors  the  minstrels,  and  dividing  it  by  time  instead 
of  syllables  ; — by  the  beat  of  four  into  which  you  might  get  as 
many  syllables  as  you  could,  instead  of  allotting  eight  syllables 
to  the  poor  time,  whatever  it  might  have  to  say.  Fie  varied  it 
further  with  alternate  rhymes  and  stanzas,  with  rests  and  omis- 
sions precisely  analogous  to  those  in  music,  and  rendered  it  alto- 
gether worthy  to  utter  the  manifold  thoughts  and  feelings  of 
himself  and  his  lady  Christabel.  He  even  ventures,  with  an 
exquisite  sense  of  solemn  strangeness  and  license  (for  there  is 
witchcraft  going  forward),  to  introduce  a  couplet  of  blank  verse, 
itself  as  mystically  and  beautifully  modulated  as  anything  in 
the  music  of  Gliick  or  Weber. 

'Tis  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle  clock, 

And  the  owls  have  awaken'd  the  crowing  cock ; 

Tu-whit ! — Tu-whoo  ! 

And  hark,  again  !  the  crowing  cock, 

How  drowsily  he  crew. 

Sir  Leoline,  the  baron  rich, 

Hath  a  toothless  mastiff  bitch  ; 

From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 

She  maketh  answer  to  the  clock 

Fbur  fdr  thS  quarters  and  twelve  f Or  the~  hour  , 

Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower, 

Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over  loud : 

Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 

7s  the  night  chilly  and  dark  ! 
The  night  is  chilly,  but  nbt  dark. 
The  thin  grey  cloud  is  spread  on  high, 
It  covers,  but  not  hides,  the  sky. 
The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full, 
And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 
The  night  is  chilly,  the  cloud  is  grey ; 

(These  are  not  superfluities,  but  mysterious  returns  of  im- 
portunate feeling) 

Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  May, 
And  the  sp?-ing  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 
The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 
Whom  her  father  loves  so  well, 
What  makes  her  in  the  wood  so  late, 
A  furlong  from  the  castle-gate  ? 


40  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 


She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 

Of  her  own  betrothed  knight; 

And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 

For  the  weal  of  her  lover  that's  far  away. 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke, 
The  sighs  she  heav'd  were  soft  and  low 
And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak, 

But  moss  and  rarest  misletoe  ; 

She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak  tree, 

And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly, 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel ! 

It  moan'd  as  near  as  near  can  be, 

But  what  it  is,  she  cannot  tell, 

On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be 

Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted,  old  oak  tree 

The  night  is  chill,  the  forest  bare  ; 
Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak  ' 

(This  "  bleak  moaning  "  is  a  witch's) 

There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 
To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 
From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek — 
There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 
The  bne  red  leaf,  the  last  6f  Its  clan, 
That  dance's  as  bftSn  as  dance  it  can, 
Hanging  sd  light  and  hanging  sd  high, 
On  the  tbpmost  twig  that  lodks  up  St  thS  sky 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel ! 
Jesu  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 
She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak, 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there  ? 

There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 
Dressed  in  a  robe  of  silken  white, 
That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone  : 
The  neck  that  made  that  white  robe  wan, 
Her  stately  neck  and  arms  were  bare  : 
Her  blue-vein'd  feet  unsandall'd  were ; 
And  wildly  glitter'd,  here  and  there, 
The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  41 

I  guess  'twas  frightful  there  to  see 
Jl  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she — 
Beautiful  exceedingly. 

The  principle  of  Variety  in  Uniformity  is  here  worked  out  in 
a  style  "beyond  the  reach  of  art."  Every  thing  is  diversified 
according  to  the  demand  of  the  moment,  of  the  sounds,  the 
sights,  the  emotions;  the  very  uniformity  of  the  outline  is  gently 
varied  ;  and  yet  we  feel  that  the  whole  is  one  and  of  the  same 
character,  the  single  and  sweet  unconsciousness  of  the  heroine 
making  all  the  rest  seem  more  conscious,  and  ghastly,  and  ex- 
pectant. It  is  thus  that  versification  itself  becomes  part  of  the 
sentiment  of  a  poem,  and  vindicates  the  pains  that  have  been 
taken  to  show  its  importance.  I  know  of  no  very  fine  versifica- 
tion unaccompanied  with  fine  poetry  ;  no  poetry  of  a  mean  order 
accompanied  with  verse  of  the  highest. 

As  to  Rhyme,  which  might  be  thought  too  insignificant  to 
mention,  it  is  not  at  all  so.  The  universal  consent  of  modern 
Europe,  and  of  the  East  in  all  ages,  has  made  it  one  of  the  mu- 
sical beauties  of  verse  for  all  poetry  but  epic  and  dramatic,  and 
even  for  the  former  with  Southern  Europe, — a  sustainment  for 
the  enthusiasm,  and  a  demand  to  enjoy.  The  mastery  of  it  con- 
sists in  never  writing  it  for  its  own  sake,  or  at  least  never  ap- 
pearing to  do  so ;  in  knowing  how  to  vary  it,  to  give  it  novelty, 
to  render  it  more  or  less  strong,  to  divide  it  (when  not  in  coup- 
lets) at  the  proper  intervals,  to  repeat  it  many  times  where  lux- 
ury or  animal  spirits  demand  it  (see  an  instance  in  Titania's 
speech  to  the  Fairies),  to  impress  an  affecting  or  startling  remark 
with  it,  and  to  make  it,  in  comic  poetry,  a  new  and  surprising 
addition  to  the  jest. 

Large  was  his  bounty  and  his  soul  sincere, 

Heav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send ; 
He  gave  to  misery  all  he  had,  a  tear  ; 

He  gain'd  from  heav'n  ('twas  all  he  wish'd)  a  friend. 

Gray's  Elegy. 

The  fops  are  proud  of  scandal ;  for  they  cry 
At  every  lewd,  low  character,  "  That's  I" 

Dryden's  Prologue  to  the  Pilgrim 


4'2  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 


What  makes  all  doctrines  plain  and  clear  ? 
About  two  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
And  that  which  was  proved  true  before, 
Prove  false  again  ?     Two  hundred  more. 

Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclin'd  to, 
By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to. 


Stor'd  with  deletery  med'cines, 


Hudibras. 


Which  whosoever  took  is  dead  since. 


Id. 


Sometimes  it  is  a  grace  in  a  master  like  But  er  to  force  his 
rhyme,  thus  showing  a  laughing  wilful  power  over  the  most 
stubborn  materials : — 


Win 
The  women,  and  make  them  draw  in 
The  men,  as  Indians  wjth  &  female 
Tame  elephant  inveigle  the  male. 


Hudibras. 


He  made  an  instrument  to  know 

If  the  moon  shines  at  full  or  no ; 

That  would,  as  soon  as  e'er  she  shone,  straight 

Whether  'twere  day  or  night  demonstrate  ; 

Tell  what  her  diameter  to  an  inch  is, 

And  prove  that  she's  not  made  of  green  cheese. 

Id. 

Pronounce  it,  by  all  means,  grinches,  to  make  the  joke  more 
wilful.  The  happiest  triple  rhyme,  Derhaps,  that  ever  was 
written,  is  in  Don  Juan  : — 

But  oh  !   ye  lords  of  ladies  intellectual, 

Inform  us  truly, — haven't  they  hen-peck'd  you  all  1 

The  sweepingness  of  the  assumption  completes  the  flowing 
breadth  of  effect. 

Dryden  confessed  that  a  rhyme  often  gave  him  a  thought. 
Probably  the  happy  word  "  sprung,"  in  the  following  passage 
from  Ben  Jonson,  was  suggested  by  it ;  but  then  the  poet  must 
have  had  the  feeling  in  him. 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  43 


—  Let  our  trumpets  sound, 
And  cleave  both  air  and  ground 
With  beating  of  our  drums. 

Let  every  lyre  be  strung, 
Harp,  lute,  theorbo,  sprung 
With  touch  of  dainty  thumbs. 

Boileau's  trick  for  appearing  to  rhyme  naturally  was  to  com- 
pose the  second  line  of  his  couplet  first !  which  gives  one  the 
crowning  idea  of  the  "  artificial  school  of  poetry."  Perhaps 
the  most  perfect  master  of  rhyme,  the  easiest  and  most  abundant, 
was  the  greatest  writer  of  comedy  that  the  world  has  seen, — 
Moliere. 

If  a  young  reader  should  ask,  after  all,  What  is  the  quickest 
way  of  knowing  bad  poets  from  good,  the  best  poets  from  the 
next  best,  and  so  on  ?  the  answer  is,  the  only  and  two-fold  way  ; 
first,  the  perusal  of  the  best  poets  with  the  greatest  attention ; 
and,  second,  the  cultivation  of  that  love  of  truth  and  beauty 
which  made  them  what  they  are.  Every  true  reader  of  poetry 
partakes  a  more  than  ordinary  portion  of  the  poetic  nature  ;  and 
no  one  can  be  completely  such,  who  does  not  love,  or  take  an 
interest  in,  everything  that  interests  the  poet,  from  the  firmament 
to  the  daisy, — from  the  highest  heart  of  man  to  the  most  pitiable 
of  the  low.  It  is  a  good  practice  to  read  with  pen  in  hand, 
marking  what  is  liked  or  doubted.  It  rivets  the  attention,  re- 
alizes the  greatest  amount  of  enjoyment,  and  facilitates  refer- 
ence. It  enables  the  reader  also,  from  time  to  time,  to  see  what 
progress  he  makes  with  his  own  mind,  and  how  it  grows  up 
towards  the  stature  of  its  exalter. 

If  the  same  person  should  ask,  What  class  of  poetry  is  the 
highest  ?  I  should  say,  undoubtedly,  the  Epic ;  for  it  includes 
the  drama,  with  narration  besides  ;  or  the  speaking  and  action 
of  the  characters,  with  the  speaking  of  the  poet  himself,  whose 
utmost  address  is  taxed  to  relate  all  well  for  so  long  a  time,  par- 
ticularly in  the  passages  least  sustained  by  enthusiasm.  Whether 
this  class  lias  included  the  greatest  poet,  is  another  question  still 
under  trial ;  for  Shakspeare  perplexes  all  such  verdicts,  even 
when  the  claimant  is  Homer;  though,  if  a  judgment  may  be 
drawn  from  his  early  narratives  (Venus  and  Adonis,  and  the 


44  AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION 


Rape  of  Lucrece),  it  is  to  be  doubted  whether  even  Shakspeare 
could  have  told  a  story  like  Homer,  owing  to  that  incessant  ac- 
tivity and  superfcetation  of  thought,  a  little  less  of  which  might 
be  occasionally  desired  even  in  his  plays ; — if  it  were  possible, 
once  possessing  anything  of  his,  to  wish  it  away.  Next  to 
Homer  and  Shakspeare  come  such  narrators  as  the  less  univer- 
sal, but  still  intenser  Dante  ;  Milton,  with  his  dignified  imagina- 
tion ;  the  universal,  profoundly  simple  Chaucer  ;  and  luxuriant, 
remote  Spenser — immortal  child  in  poetry's  most  poetic  solitudes  : 
then  the  great  second-rate  dramatists  ;  unless  those  who  are 
better  acquainted  with  Greek  tragedy  than  I  am,  demand  a  place 
for  them  before  Chaucer :  then  the  airy  yet  robust  universality 
of  Ariosto ;  the  hearty,  out-of-door  nature  of  Theocritus,  also  a 
universalist ;  the  finest  lyrical  poets  (who  only  take  short  flights, 
compared  with  the  narrators)  ;  the  purely  contemplative  poets 
who  have  more  thought  than  feeling ;  the  descriptive,  satirical, 
didactic,  epigrammatic.  It  is  to  be  borne  in  mind,  however, 
that  the  first  poet  of  an  inferior  class  may  be  superior  to  follow- 
ers in  the  train  of  a  higher  one,  though  the  superiority  is  by  no 
means  to  be  taken  for  granted  ;  otherwise  Pope  would  be  supe- 
rior to  Fletcher,  and  Butler  to  Pope.  Imagination,  teeming  with 
action  and  character,  makes  the  greatest  poets  ;  feeling  and 
thought  the  next ;  fancy  (by  itself)  the  next ;  wit  the  last. 
Thought  by  itself  makes  no  poet  at  all  ;  for  the  mere  conclu- 
sions of  the  understanding  can  at  best  be  only  so  many  intellec- 
tual matters  of  fact.  Feeling,  even  destitute  of  conscious 
thought,  stands  a  far  better  poetical  chance  ;  feeling  being  a  sort 
of  thought  without  the  process  of  thinking, — a  grasper  of  the 
truth  without  seeing  it.  And  what  is  very  remarkable,  feeling 
seldom  makes  the  blunders  that  thought  does.  An  idle  distinc- 
tion has  been  made  between  taste  and  judgment.  Taste  is  the 
very  maker  of  judgment.  Put  an  artificial  fruit  in  your  mouth, 
or  only  handle  it,  and  you  will  soon  perceive  the  difference  be- 
tween judging  from  taste  or  tact,  and  judging  from  the  abstract 
figment  called  judgment.  The  latter  does  but  throw  you  into 
guesses  and  doubts.  Hence  the  conceits  that  astonish  us  in  the 
gravest,  and  even  subtlest  thinkers,  whose  taste  is  not  propor- 
tionate to  their  mental  perceptions ;  men  like  Donne,  for  instance  ; 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  45 


who,  apart  from  accidental  personal  impressions,  seem  to  look  at 
nothing  as  it  really  is,  but  only  as  to  what  may  be  thought  of  it. 
Hence,  on  the  other  hand,  the  delightfulness  of  those  poets  who 
never  violate  truth  of  feeling,  whether  in  things  real  or  imagi- 
nary ;  who  are  always  consistent  with  their  object  and  its  re- 
quirements ;  and  who  run  the  great  round  of  nature,  not  to 
perplex  and  be  perplexed,  but  to  make  themselves  and  us  happy. 
And  luckily,  delightfulness  is  not  incompatible  with  greatness, 
willing  soever  as  men  may  be  in  their  present  imperfect  state  to 
set  the  power  to  subjugate  above  the  power  to  please.  Truth, 
of  any  great  kind  whatsoever,  makes  great  writing.  This  is 
the  reason  why  such  poets  as  Ariosto,  though  not  writing  with  a 
constant  detail  of  thought  and  feeling  like  Dante,  are  justly 
considered  great  as  well  as  delightful.  Their  greatness  proves 
itself  by  the  same  truth  of  nature,  and  sustained  power, 
though  in  a  different  way.  Their  action  is  not  so  crowded 
and  weighty ;  their  sphere  has  more  territories  less  fertile ; 
but  it  has  enchantments  of  its  own,  which  excess  of  thought 
would  spoil, — luxuries,  laughing  graces,  animal  spirits ; 
and  not  to  recognize  the  beauty  and  greatness  of  these,  treated 
as  they  treat  them,  is  simply  to  be  defective  in  sympathy.  Ev- 
ery planet  is  not  Mars  or  Saturn.  There  is  also  Venus  and 
Mercury.  There  is  one  genius  of  the  south,  and  another  of  the 
north,  and  others  uniting  both.  The  reader  who  is  too  thought- 
less or  too  sensitive  to  like  intensity  of  any  sort,  and  he  who  is 
too  thoughtful  or  too  dull  to  like  anything  but  the  greatest  possi- 
ble stimulus  of  reflection  or  passion,  are  equally  wanting  in 
complexional  fitness  for  a  thorough  enjoyment  of  books.  Ari- 
osto occasionally  says  as  fine  things  as  Dante,  and  Spenser  as 
Shakspeare  ;  but  the  business  of  both  is  to  enjoy  ;  and  in  order 
to  partake  their  enjoyment  to  its  full  extent,  you  must  feel  what 
poetry  is  in  the  general  as  well  as  the  particular,  must  be  aware 
that  there  are  different  songs  of  the  spheres,  some  fuller  of  notes, 
and  others  of  a  sustained  delight ;  and  as  the  former  keep  you 
perpetually  alive  to  thought  or  passion,  so  from  the  latter  you 
receive  a  constant  harmonious  sense  of  truth  and  beauty,  more 
agreeable  perhaps  on  the  whole,  though  less  exciting.  Ariosto, 
for  instance,  does  not  tell  a  story  with  the  brevity  and  concen- 


46  AN  ANSWER  10  THE  QUESTION 

trated  passion  of  Dante  ;  every  sentence  is  not  so  full  of  matter, 
nor  the  style  so  removed  from  the  indifference  of  prose  ;  yet  you 
are  charmed  with  a  truth  of  another  sort,  equally  characteristic 
of  the  writer,  equally  drawn  from  nature,  and  substituting  a 
healthy  sense  of  enjoyment  for  intenser  emotion.  Exclusiveness 
of  liking  for  this  or  that  mode  of  truth,  only  shows,  either  that  a 
reader's  perceptions  are  limited,  or  that  he  would  sacrifice 
truth  itself  to  his  favorite  form  of  it.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  who 
was  as  tranchant  with  his  pen  as  his  sword,  hailed  the  Faerie 
Queene  of  his  friend  Spenser  in  verses  in  which  he  said  that 
"  Petrarch"  was  thenceforward  to  be  no  more  heard  of ;  and 
that  in  all  English  poetry,  there  was  nothing  he  counted  "  of  any 
price"  but  the  effusions  of  the  new  author.  Yet  Petrarch  is  stili 
living  ;  Chaucer  was  not  abolished  by  Sir  Walter ;  and  Shaks- 
peare  is  thought  somewhat  valuable.  A  botanist  might  as  well 
have  said,  that  myrtles  and  oaks  were  to  disappear,  because 
acacias  had  come  up.  It  is  with  the  poet's  creations,  as  with 
nature's,  great  or  small.  Wherever  truth  and  beauty,  whatever 
their  amount,  can  be  worthily  shaped  into  verse,  and  answer  to 
some  demand  for  it  in  our  hearts,  there  poetry  is  to  be  found  ; 
whether  in  productions  grand  and  beautiful  as  some  great 
event,  or  some  mighty,  leafy  solitude,  or  no  bigger  and  more 
pretending  than  a  sweet  face  or  a  bunch  of  violets ;  whether  in 
Homer's  epic  or  Gray's  Elegy,  in  the  enchanted  gardens  of 
Ariosto  and  Spenser,  or  the  very  pot-herbs  of  the  Schoolmistress 
of  Shenstone,  the  balms  of  the  simplicity  of  a  cottage.  Not  to 
know  and  feel  this,  is  to  be  deficient  in  the  universality  of  Na- 
ture herself,  who  is  a  poetess  on  the  smallest  as  well  as  the 
largest  scale,  and  who  calls  upon  us  to  admire  all  her  produc- 
tions :  not  indeed  with  the  same  degree  of  admiration,  but  with 
no  refusal  of  it,  except  to  defect. 

I  cannot  draw  this  essay  towards  its  conclusion  better  than 
with  three  memorable  words  of  Milton  ;  who  has  said,  that  poetry, 
in  comparison  with  science,  is  "  simple,  sensuous,  and  passion- 
ate." By  simple,  he  means  unperplexed  and  self-evident ;  by 
sensuous,  genial  and  full  of  imagery  ;  by  passionate,  excited 
and  enthusiastic.  I  am  aware  that  different  constructions  have 
been  put  on  some  of  these  words  ;  but  the  context  seems  to  me 


WHAT  IS  POETRY  ?  47 


to  necessitate  those  before  us.  I  quote,  however,  not  from  the 
original,  but  from  an  extract  in  the  Remarks  on  Paradise  Lost 
by  Richardson. 

What  the  poet  has  to  cultivate  above  all  things  is  love  and 
truth ; — what  he  has  to  avoid,  like  poison,  is  the  fleeting  and  the 
false.  He  will  get  no  good  by  proposing  to  be  "  in  earnest  at 
the  moment."  His  earnestness  must  be  innate  and  habitual ; 
born  with  him,  and  felt  to  be  his  most  precious  inheritance.  "  I 
expect  neither  profit  nor  general  fame  by  my  writings,"  says 
Coleridge,  in  the  Preface  to  his  Poems  ;  "  and  I  consider  my- 
self as  having  been  amply  repaid  without  either.  Poetry  has 
been  to  me  its  '  own  exceeding  great  reward  :'  it  has  soothed  my 
afflictions  ;  it  has  multiplied  and  refined  my  enjoyments;  it  has 
endeared  solitude  ;  and  it  has  given  me  the  habit  of  wishing  to 
discover  the  good  and  the  beautiful  in  all  that  meets  and  sur- 
rounds me." — Pickering's  edition,  p.  10. 

"  Poetry,"  says  Shelley,  "  lifts  the  veil  from  the  hidden 
beauty  of  the  world,  and  makes  familiar  objects  be  as  if  they 
were  not  familiar.  It  reproduces  all  that  it  represents ;  and  the 
impersonations  clothed  in  its  Elysian  light  stand  thenceforward 
in  the  minds  of  those  who  have  once  contemplated  them,  as  me- 
morials of  that  gentle  and  exalted  content  which  extends  itself 
over  all  thoughts  and  actions  with  which  it  co-exists.  The 
great  secret  of  morals  is  love,  or  a  going  out  of  our  own  nature, 
and  an  identification  of  ourselves  with  the  beautiful  which  ex- 
ists in  thought,  action,  or  person,  not  our  own.  A  man,  to  be 
greatly  good,  must  imagine  intensely  and  comprehensively  ;  he 
must  put  himself  in  the  place  of  another,  and  of  many  others : 
the  pains  and  pleasures  of  his  species  must  become  his  own. 
The  great  instrument  of  moral  good  is  imagination  ;  and  poetry 
administers  to  the  effect  by  acting  upon  the  cause." — Essays 
and  Letters,  vol  i.,  p.  16. 

I  would  not  willingly  say  anything  after  perorations  like 
these ;  but  as  treatises  on  poetry  may  chance  to  have  auditors 
who  think  themselves  called  upon  to  vindicate  the  superiority  of 
what  is  termed  useful  knowledge,  it  may  be  as  well  to  add,  that 
if  the  poet  may  be  allowed  to  pique  himself  on  any  one  thing 
more  than  another,  compared  with  those  who  undervalue  him, 


43        AN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION  WHAT  IS  POETRY  ? 

it  is  on  that  power  of  undervaluing  nobody,  and  no  attainments 
different  from  his  own,  which  is  given  him  by  the  very  faculty 
of  imagination  they  despise.  The  greater  includes  the  less. 
They  do  not  see  that  their  inability  to  comprehend  him  argues 
the  smaller  capacity.  No  man  recognizes  the  worth  of  utility 
more  than  the  poet :  he  only  desires  that  the  meaning  of  the 
term  may  not  come  short  of  its  greatness,  and  exclude  the  no- 
blest necessities  of  his  fellow-creatures.  He  is  quite  as  much 
pleased,  for  instance,  with  the  facilities  for  rapid  conveyance 
afforded  him  by  the  railroad,  as  the  dullest  confiner  of  its  ad- 
vantages to  that  single  idea,  or  as  the  greatest  two-idead  man 
who  varies  that   single  idea  with   hugginc;  himself  on  his  "  but- 

O  Do        o 

tons  "  or  his  good  dinner.  But  he  sees  also  the  beauty  of  the 
country  through  which  he  passes,  of  the  towns,  of  the  heavens, 
of  the  steam-engine  itself,  thundering  and  fuming  along  like  a 
magic  horse,  of  the  affections  that  are  carrying,  perhaps,  hall 
the  passengers  on  their  journey,  nay,  of  those  of  the  great  two- 
idead  man ;  and,  beyond  all  this,  he  discerns  the  incalculable 
amount  of  good,  and  knowledge,  and  refinement,  and  mutual 
consideration,  which  this  wonderful  invention  is  fitted  to  circu- 
late over  the  globe,  perhaps  to  the  displacement  of  war  itself, 
and  certainly  to  the  diffusion  of  millions  of  enjoyments. 

"  And  a  button-maker,  after  all,  invented  it !"  cries  our 
friend. 

Pardon  me — it  was  a  nobleman.  A  button-maker  may  be  a 
very  excellent,  and  a  very  poetical  man,  too,  and  yet  not  have 
been  the  first  man  visited  by  a  sense  of  the  gigantic  powers  of 
the  combination  of  water  and  fire.  It  was  a  nobleman  who  first 
thought  of  this  most  poetical  bit  of  science.  It  was  a  nobleman 
who  first  thought  of  it, — a  captain  who  first  tried  it, — and  a  but- 
ton-maker who  perfected  it.  And  he  who  put  the  nobleman  on 
such  thoughts,  was  the  great  philosopher,  Bacon,  who  said  that 
poetry  had  "  something  divine  in  it,"  and  was  necessary  to  the 
satisfaction  of  the  human  mind. 


SPENSER.  49 


SPENSER, 

BORN,  PROBABLY,  ABOUT  THE  YEAR  1553- 
DIED,  1598. 


Three  things  must  be  conceded  to  the  objectors  against  this 
divine  poet ;  first,  that  he  wrote  a  good  deal  of  allegory  ;  second, 
Jhat  he  has  a  great  many  superfluous  words  ;  third,  that  he  was 
very  fond  of  alliteration.  He  is  accused  also  (by  little  boys)  of 
obsolete  words  and  spelling  ;  and  it  must  be  added,  that  he  often 
forces  his  rhymes  ;  nay,  spells  them  in  an  arbitrary  manner  on 
purpose  to  make  them  fit.  In  short,  he  has  a  variety  of  faults, 
real  or  supposed,  that  would  be  intolerable  in  writers  in  general. 
This  is  true.  The  answer  is,  that  his  genius  not  only  makes 
amends  for  all,  but  overlays  them,  and  makes  them  beautiful, 
with  "  riches  fineless."  When  acquaintance  with  him  is  once 
begun,  he  repels  none  but  the  anti-poetical.  Others  may  not  be 
able  to  read  him  continuously  ;  but  more  or  less,  and  as  an 
enchanted  stream  "  to  dip  into,"  they  will  read  him  always. 

In  Spenser's  time,  orthography  was  unsettled.  Pronunciation 
is  always  so.  The  great  poet,  therefore,  sometimes  spells  his 
words,  whether  rhymed  or  otherwise,  in  a  manner  apparently 
arbitrary,  for  the  purpose  of  inducing  the  reader  to  give  them  the 
sound  fittest  for  the  sense.  Alliteration,  which,  as  a  ground  of 
melody,  had  been  a  principle  in  Anglo-Saxon  verse,  continued 
such  a  favorite  with  old  English  poets  whom  Spenser  loved,  that, 
as  late  as  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Third,  it  stood  in  the  place 
of  rhyme  itself.  Our  author  turns  it  to  beautiful  account. 
Superfluousness,  though  eschewed  with  a  fine  instinct  by  Chau- 
cer in  some  of  his  latest  works,  where  the  narrative  was  fullest 
of  action  and  character,  abounded  in  his  others;  and,  in  spite  of 

5 


60  SPENSER. 

the  classics,  it  had  not  been  recognized  as  a  fault  in  Spenser's 
time,  when  books  were  still  rare,  and  a  writer  thought  himself 
bound  to  pour  out  all  he  felt  and  knew.  It  accorded  also  with 
his  genius  ;  and  in  him  is  not  an  excess  of  weakness,  but  of  will 
and  luxury.  And  as  to  allegory,  it  was  not  only  the  taste  of 
the  day,  originating  in  gorgeous  pageants  of  church  and  state, 
but  in  Spenser's  hands  it  became  such  an  embodiment  of  poetry 
itself,  that  its  objectors  really  deserve  no  better  answer  than  has 
been  given  them  by  Mr.  Hazlitt,  who  asks,  if  they  thought  the 
allegory  would  "  bite  them."  The  passage  will  be  found  a 
little  further  on. 

Spenser's  great  characteristic  is  poetic  luxury.  If  you  goto 
him  for  a  story,  you  will  be  disappointed  ;  if  for  a  style,  clas- 
sical or  concise,  the  point  against  him  is  conceded;  if  for  pathos, 
you  must  weep  for  personages  half- real  and  too  beautiful  ;  if  for 
mirth,  you  must  laugh  out  of  good  breeding,  and  because  it 
pleaseth  the  great,  sequestered  man,  to  be  facetious.  But  if  you 
love  poetry  well  enough  to  enjoy  it  for  its  own  sake,  let  no  evil 
reports  of  its  "  allegory"  deter  you  from  his  acquaintance,  for 
great  will  be  your  loss.  His  allegory  itself  is  but  one  part 
allegory,  and  nine  parts  beauty  and  enjoyment ;  sometimes  an 
excels  of  flesh  and  blood.  His  forced  rhymes,  and  his  sentences 
written  to  fill  up,  which  in  a  less  poet  would  be  intolerable,  are 
accompanied  with  such  endless  grace  and  dreaming  pleasure, 
fit  to 

Make  heaven  drowsy  with  the  harmony, 

that  although  it  is  to  be  no  more  expected  of  anybody  to  read 
him  through  at  once,  than  to  wander  days  and  nights  in  a  forest, 
thinking  of  nothing  else,  yet  any  true  lover  of  poetry,  when  he 
comes  to  know  him,  would  as  soon  quarrel  with  repose  on  the 
summer  grass.  You  may  get  up  and  go  away,  but  will  return 
next  day  at  noon  to  listen  to  his  waterfalls,  and  to  see,  "  with 
half-shut  eye,"  his  visions  of  knights  and  nymphs,  his  gods  and 
goddesses,  whom  he  brought  down  to  earth  in  immortal  beauty. 
Spenser,  in  some  respects,  is  more  southern  than  the  south 
itself.     Dante,  but  for  the  covered  heat  which  occasionally  con- 


SPENSER.  51 


centrates  the  utmost  sweetness  as  well  as  venom,  would  be  quite 
n®rthern  compared  with  him.  He  is  more  luxurious  than  Ari- 
osto  or  Tasso,  more  haunted  with  the  presence  of  beauty.  His 
wholesale  poetical  belief,  mixing  up  all  creeds  and  mythologies, 
but  with  less  violence,  resembles  that  of  Dante  and  Boccaccio ; 
and  it  gives  the  compound  the  better  warrant  in  the  more  agree- 
able impression.  Then  his  versification  is  almost  perpetual 
honey. 

Spenser  is  the  farthest  removed  from  the  ordinary  cares  and 
haunts  of  the  world  of  all  the  poets  that  ever  wrote,  except  perhaps 
Ovid  ;  and  this,  which  is  the  reason  why  mere  men  of  business  and 
the  world  do  not  like  him,  constitutes  his  most  bewitching  charm 
with  the  poetical.  He  is  not  so  great  a  poet  as  Shakspeare  or 
Dante ; — he  has  less  imagination,  though  more  fancy,  than  Mil- 
ton. He  does  not  see  things  so  purely  in  their  elements  as 
Dante ;  neither  can  he  combine  their  elements  like  Shakspeare, 
nor  bring  such  frequent  intensities  of  words,  or  of  wholesale 
imaginative  sympathy,  to  bear  upon  his  subject  as  any  one  of 
them  ;  though  he  has  given  noble  diffuser  instances  of  the  latter 
in  his  Una,  and  his  Mammon,  and  his  accounts  of  Jealousy  and 
Despair. 

But  when  you  are  "  over-informed  "  with  thought  and  passion 
in  Shakspeare,  when  Milton's  mighty  grandeurs  oppress  you,  or 
are  found  mixed  with  painful  absurdities,  or  when  the  world  is 
vexatious  and  tiresome,,  and  you  have  had  enough  of  your  own 
vanities  or  struggles  in  it,  or  when  "  house  and  land  "  them- 
selves are  "gone  and  spent,"  and  your  riches  must  lie  in  the 
regions  of  the  "  unknown,"  then  Spenser  is  "  most  excellent." 
His  remoteness  from  every-day  life  is  the  reason  perhaps  why 
Somers  and  Chatham  admired  him  ;  and  his  possession  of  every 
kind  of  imaginary  wealth  completes  his  charm  with  his  brother 
poets.  Take  him  in  short  for  what  he  is,  whether  greater  or  less 
than  his  fellows,  the  poetical  faculty  is  so  abundantly  and  beau- 
tifully predominant  in  him  above  every  other,  though  he  had  pas- 
sion, and  thought,  and  plenty  of  ethics,  and  was  as  learned  a 
man  as  Ben  Jonson,  perhaps  as  Milton  himself,  that  he  has 
always  been  felt  by  his  countrymen  to  be  what  Charles  Lamb 
called  him,  the  "  Poet's  Poet."     He  has  had  more  idolatry  and 


52  SPENSER. 


imitation  from  his  brethren  than  all  the  rest  put  together.  The 
old  undramatic  poets,  Drayton,  Browne,  Drummond,  Giles  and 
Phineas  Fletcher,  were  as  full  of  him  as  the  dramatic  were  of 
Shakspeare.  Milton  studied  and  used  him,  calling  him  the 
"  sage  and  serious  Spenser;"  and  adding,  that  he  "dared  be 
known  to  think  him  a  better  teacher  than  Scotus  or  Aquinas." 
Cowley  said  that  he  became  a  poet  by  reading  him.  Dryden 
claimed  him  for  a  master.  Pope  said  he  read  him  with  as  much 
pleasure  when  he  was  old,  as  young.  Collins  and  Gray  loved 
him  ;  Thomson,  Shenstone,  and  a  host  of  inferior  writers,  ex- 
pressly imitated  him  ;  Burns,  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats  made 
use  of  his  stanza ;  Coleridge  eulogized  him ;  and  he  is  as  dear 
to  the  best  living  poets  as  he  was  to  their  predecessors.  Spenser 
has  stood  all  the  changes  in  critical  opinion  ;  all  the  logical  and 
formal  conclusions  of  the  understanding,  as  opposed  to  imagina- 
tion and  lasting  sympathy.  Plobbes  in  vain  attempted  to  depose 
him  in  favor  of  Davenant's  Gondibert.  Locke  and  his  friend 
Molyneux  to  no  purpose  preferred  Blackmore  !  Hume,  acute 
and  encroaching  philosopher  as  he  was,  but  not  so  universal  in 
his  philosophy  as  great  poets,  hurt  Spenser's  reputation  with 
none  but  the  French  (who  did  not  know  him) ;  and,  by  way  of 
involuntary  amends  for  the  endeavor,  he  set  up  for  poets  such 
men  as  Wilkie  and  Blacklock  !  In  vain,  in  vain.  "  In  spite  of 
philosophy  and  fashion,"  says  a  better  critic  of  that  day  (Bishop 
Hurd),  "'Faerie  Spenser'  still  ranks  highest  amongst  the 
poets  ;  I  mean  with  all  those  who  are  either  of  that  house,  or 
have  any  kindness  for  it.     Earth-born  critics  may  blaspheme ; 

But  all  the  gods  are  ravish'd  with  delight 

Of  his  celestial  song  and  music's  wondrous  might." 

Remarks  on  the  Plan  and  Conduct  of  the  Faerie  Queene  (inTodd's  edition  of  Spenser,  vol. 

ii.,  p.  183). 

"  In  reading  Spenser,"  says  Warton,  "  if  the  critic  is  not 
satisfied,  yet  the  reader  is  transported."     (Id.,  p.  65.) 

"  Spenser,"  observes  Coleridge,  *  has  the  wit  of  the  southern, 
with  the  deeper  inwardness  of  the  northern  genius.  Take  espe- 
cial note  of  the  marvellous  independence  and  true  imaginative 
absence  of  all  particular  space  or  time  in  the  Faerie  Queene. 


SPENSER.  53 

It  is  in  the  domains  neither  of  history  nor  geography :  it  is 
ignorant  of  all  artificial  boundary,  all  material  obstacles ;  it  ia 
truly  in  land  of  Faerie,  that  is,  of  mental  space.  The  poet  has 
placed  you  in  a  dream,  a  charmed  sleep :  and  you  neither  wish 
nor  have  the  power  to  inquire,  where  you  are,  or  how  you  got 
there."     Literary  Remains,  vol.  i.,  p.  94. 

"  In  reading  the  Faerie  Queene,"  says  Hazlitt,  "  you  see  a 
little  withered  old  man  by  a  wood-side  opening  a  wicket,  a  giant, 
and  a  dwarf  lagging  far  behind,  a  damsel  in  a  boat  upon  an  en- 
chanted lake,  wood-nymphs  and  satyrs  :  and  all  of  a  sudden  you 
are  transported  into  a  lofty  palace,  with  tapers  burning,  amidst 
knights  and  ladies,  with  dance  and  revelry,  and  song, '  and  mask 
and  antique  pageantry.'- — But  some  people  will  say  that  all  this 
may  be  very  fine,  but  they  cannot  understand  it  on  account  of 
the  allegory.  They  are  afraid  of  the  allegory,  as  if  they 
thought  it  would  bite  them  ;  they  look  at  it  as  a  child  looks  at  a 
painted  dragon,  and  think  that  it  will  strangle  them  in  its  shining 
folds.  This  is  very  idle.  If  they  do  not  meddle  with  the  alle- 
gory, the  allegory  will  not  meddle  with  them.  Without  minding 
it  at  all  the  whole  is  as  plain  as  a  pike-staff.  It  might  as  well 
be  pretended,  that  we  cannot  see  Poussin's  pictures  for  the  alle- 
gory, as  that  the  allegory  prevents  us  from  understanding 
Spenser."  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets  (Templeman's  Edi 
tion,  12mo.,  p.  67). 


54  SPENSER. 


ARCHIMAGO'S    HERMITAGE, 

AND 

THE  HOUSE  OF  MORPHEUS. 

Archimago,  a  hypocritical  magician,  lures  Una  and  the  Red-cross  Knight 
into  his  abode;  and  while  they  are  asleep,  sends  to  Morpheus,  the  god  of 
sleep,  for  a  false  dream,  to  produce  discord  between  them. 

A  little  lowly  hermitage  it  was 
Down  in  a  dale,  hard  by  a  forest's  side, 
Far  from  resort  of  people,  that  did  pass 
In  travel  to  and  fro :  a  little  wide 
There  was  a  holy  chapel  edified, 
Wherein  the  hermit  duly  wont  to  say 
His  holy  things  each  morn  and  eventide ; 
Thereby  a  crystal  stream  did  gently  play 
Which  from  a  sacred  fountain  welled  forth  alwayA 

Arrived  there  the  little  house  they  fill,2 
Nor  look  for  entertainment  where  none  was  ,3 
Rest  is  their  feast,  and  all  things  at  their  will . 
The  noblest  mind  the  best  contentment  has.* 
With  fair  discourse  the  evening  so  they  pass, 
For  that  old  man  of  pleasing  words  had  store, 
And  well  could  file  his  tongue  as  smooth  as  glass  : 
He  told  of  saints  and  popes,  and  evermore 
He  strew' d  an  Ave  Mary,  after  and  before. 

The  drooping  night  thus  creepeth  on  them  fast ; 

And  the  sad  humor,  loading  their  eye-lids, 

As  messenger  of  Morpheus,  on  them  cast 

Sweet  slumbering  dew ;  the  which  to  sleep  them  bids 

Unto  their  lodgings  then  his  guests  he  rids  ; 

Where,  when  all  drown'd  in  deadly  sleep  he  finds, 

He  to  his  study  goes,  and  their  amids' 

His  magic  books  and  arts  of  sundry  kinds, 

He  seeks  out  mighty  charms  to  trouble  sleepy  minds. 


SPENSER.  55 


Then  choosing  out  few  words  most  horrible 
(Let  none  them  read!)5  thereof  did  verses  frame, 
With  which,  and  other  spells  like  terrible, 
He  bad  awake  black  Pluto's  grisly  dame, 
And  cursed  Heaven ;  and  spake  reproachful  shame 
Of  highest  God,  the  Lord  of  life  and  light: 
A  bold  bad  man,  that  dar'd  to  call  by  name 
Great  Gorgon,6  prince  of  darkness  and  dead  night ; 
At  which  Cocytus  quakes,  and  Styx  is  put  to  flight. 

And  forth  he  call'd  out  of  deep  darkness  dread 
Legions  of  sprites,  the  which,  like  little  flies,' 
Fluttering  about  his  ever  damned  head, 
Await  where  to  their  service  he  applies^ 
To  aid  his  friends,  or  fray  his  enemies  ; 
Of  those  he  chose  out  two,  the  falsest  two 
And  fittest  for  to  forge  true-seeming  lies ; 
The  one  of  them  he  gave  a  message  to, 
The  other  by  himself  staid  other  work  to  do 

He  maketh  speedy  way  through  spersed  air, 
And  through  the  world  of  waters  wide  and  deep? 
To  Morpheus'  house  doth  hastily  repair. — 9 
Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  steep, 
And  low,  where  dawning  day  doth  never  peep, 
His  dwelling  is  ;  there  Tethys  his  wet  bed 
Doth  ever  wash,  and  Cynthia  still  doth  steep 
In  silver  dew  his  ever-drooping  head, 
While  sad  night  over  him  her  mantle  black  doth  spread 

Whose  double  gates  he  findeth  locked  fast ; 
The  one  fair  fram'd  of  burnish'd  ivory, 
The  other  all  with  silver  overcast ; 
And  wakeful  dogs  before  them  far  do  lie, 
Watching  to  banish  Care  their  enemy, 
Who  oft  is  wont  to  trouble  gentle  Sleep, 
By  them  the  sprite  doth  pass  in  quietly 
And  unto  Morpheus  comes,  whom  drowned  deep 
In  drowsy  fit  he  finds  ;  of  nothing  he  takes  keep. 

And  more  to  lull  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 

A  trickling  stream,  from  high  rock  tumbling  down, 

And  ever  drizzling  ram  upon  the  loft, 

Jtfix'd  with  a  murmuring  wind,  much  like  the  sou 

Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swoun : 


56  SPENSER. 


JVo  other  noise,  nor  people's  troublous  cries, 
As  still  are  wont  f  annoy  the  walled  town, 
Might  there  be  heard  ;  but  careless  Quiet  lies, 
Wrapt  in  eternal  silence,  far  from  enemies. l& 

The  messenger  approaching  to  him  spake 

But  his  waste  words  return'd  to  him  in  vain 

So  sound  he  slept,  that  naught  might  him  awake. 

Then  rudely  he  him  thrust,  and  push'd  with  pain, 

Whereat  he  'gan  to  stretch  :  but  he  again 

Shook  him  so  hard,  that  forced  him  to  speak 

As  one  then  in  a  dream,  whose  drier  brain 

Is  tost  with  troubled  sights  and  fancies  weak, 

He  mumbled  soft,  but  would  not  all  his  silence  break 

The  sprite  then  'gan  more  boldly  him  to  wake, 
And  threaten'd  unto  him  the  dreaded  name 
Of  Hecate :  whereat  he  'gan  to  quake, 
And  lifting  up  his  lumpish  head,  with  blame 
Half  angry  ask£d  him,  for  what  he  came. 
"  Hither,"  quoth  he,  "  me  Archimago  sent : 
He  that  the  stubborn  sprites  can  wisely  tame ; 
He  bids  thee  to  him  send  for  his  intent 
A  fit  false  dream,  that  can  delude  the  sleeper's  sent."11 

The  god  obeyed ;  and  calling  forth  straightway 
A  divers  dream12  out  of  his  prison  dark, 
Deliver' d  it  to  him,  and  down  did  lay 
His  heavy  head,  devoid  of  careful  cark  ; 
Whose  senses  all  were  straight  benumb'd  and  stark. 
He,  back  returning  by  the  ivory  door, 
Remounted  up  as  light  as  cheerful  lark  ; 
JLnd  on  his  little  wings  the  dream  he  bore 
In  haste  unto  his  lord,  where  he  him  left  afore. 

1   Welle-d  forth  alway. 

The  modulation  of  this  charming  stanza  is  exquisite.  Let 
us  divide  it  into  its  pauses,  and  see  what  we  have  been  hear- 
ing :— 

A  little  lowly  hermitage  it  was  | 
Down  in  a  dale,  |  hard  by  a  forest's  side,  | 
Far  from  resort  of  people  |  that  did  pass 
In  travel  to  and  fro :  |  a  little  wide  j 


SPENSER.  57 

There  was  a  holy  chapel  edified,  | 
Wherein  the  hermit  duly  wont  to  say 
His  holy  things  |  each  morn  and  eventide  ; 
Thereby  a  crystal  stream  did  gently  play  | 
Which  from  a  sacred  fountain  welled  forth  alway. 

Mark  the  variety  of  pauses,  of  the  accentuation  of  the  sylla- 
bles and  of  the  intonation  of  the  vowels ;  all  closing  in  that  ex- 
quisite last  line,  as  soft  and  continuous  as  the  water  it  describes. 
The  repetition  of  the  words  little  and  holy'  add  to  the  sacred 
snugness  of  the  abode.  We  are  to  fancy  the  little  tenement  on 
the  skirts  of  a  forest,  that  is  to  say,  within,  but  not  deeply 
within,  the  trees ;  the  chapel  is  near  it,  but  not  close  to  it, 
more  embowered  ;  and  the  rivulet  may  be  supposed  to  circuit 
both  chapel  and  hermitage,  running  partly  under  the  trees  be- 
tween mossy  and  flowery  banks,  for  hermits  were  great  cullers 
of  simples  ;  and  though  Archimago  was  a  false  hermit,  we  are 
to  suppose  him  living  in  a  true  hermitage.  It  is  one  of  those 
pictures  which  remain  for  ever  in  the  memory  ;  and  the  suc- 
ceeding stanza  is  worthy  of  it. 

2  Arrived  there  the  little  house  they  fiU. 

Not  literally  the  house,  but  the  apartment  as  a  specimen  of 
the  house  ;  for  we  see  by  what  follows  that  the  hermitage  must 
have  contained  at  least  four  rooms ;  one  in  which  the  knight 
and  the  lady  were  introduced,  two  more  for  their  bed-chambers, 
and  a  fourth  for  the  magician's  study. 

3  Nor  look  for  entertainment  where  none  was. 

"  Entertainment"  is  here  used  in  the  restricted  sense  of  treat- 
ment as  regards  food  and  accommodation  ;  according  to  the 
old  inscription  over  inn-doors — "  Entertainment  for  man  and 
horse." 

4  The  noblest  mind  the  best  contentment  has. 

This  is  one  of  Spenser's  many  noble  sentiments  expressed  in 
as  noble  single  lines,  as  if  made  to  be  recorded  in  the  copy-books 


58  SPENSER. 


of  full-grown  memories.     As,  for  example,  one  which  he  is  fond 
of  repeating  : — 

No  service  loathsome  to  a  gentle  kind. 
Entire  affection  scorneth  nicer  hands. 
True  love  loathes  disdainful  nicety. 

A.nd  that  fine  Alexandrine, — 

Weak  body  well  is  chang'd  for  mind's  redoubled  force. 

And  another,  which  Milton  has  imitated  in  Comus — 

Virtue  gives  herself  light  in  darkness  for  to  wade. 

5  "  Let  none  them  read." — As  if  we  could  !  And  yet  while  we 
smile  at  the  impossibility,  we  delight  in  this  solemn  injunction  of 
the  Poet's,  so  child-like,  and  full  of  the  imaginative  sense  of  the 
truth  of  what  he  is  saying. 

6  A  bold  bad  man  that  dared  to  call  by  name 
Great  Gorgon. 

This  is  the  ineffable  personage,  whom  Milton,  with  a  propriety 
equally  classical  and  poetical,  designates  as 

The  dreaded  name 

Of  Demogorgon. 

Par.  Lost,  Book  ii.,  v.  9G5. 

Ancient  believers  apprehended  such  dreadful  consequences 
from  the  mention  of  him,  that  his  worst  and  most  potent  invokers 
are  represented  as  fearful  of  it;  nor  am  I  aware  that  any  poet, 
Greek  or  Latin,  has  done  it,  though  learned  commentators  on 
Spenser  imply  otherwise.  In  the  passages  they  allude  to,  in 
Lucan  and  Statius,  there  is  no  name  uttered.  The  adjuration 
is  always  made  by  a  periphrasis.  This  circumstance  is  noticed 
by  Boccaccio,  who  has  given  by  far  the  best,  and  indeed,  I  be- 
lieve, the  only  account  of  this  very  rare  god,  except  what  is 
abridged  from  his  pages  in  a  modern  Italian  mythology,  and  fur- 
nished by  his  own  authorities,  Lactantius  and  Theodontus,  the 
latter  an  author  now  lost.  Ben  Jonson  calls  him  "  Boccaccio's 
Demogorgon."     The  passage  is  in  the  first  book  of  his  Genea- 


SPENSER.  59 


logia  Deorum,  a  work  of  prodigious  erudition  for  that  age,  and 
full  of  the  gusto  of  a  man  of  genius.  According  to  Boccaccio, 
Demogorgon  (Spirit  Earthworker)  was  the  great  deity  of  the 
rustical  Arcadians,  and  the  creator  of  all  things  out  of  brute 
matter.  He  describes  him  as  a  pale  and  sordid-looking  wretch, 
inhabiting  the  centre  of  the  earth,  all  over  moss  and  dirt,  squal- 
idly wet,  and  emitting  an  earthy  smell  ;  and  he  laughs  at  the 
credulity  of  the  ancients  in  thinking  to  make  a  god  of  such  a  fel- 
low. He  is  very  glad,  however,  to  talk  about  him  ;  and  doubt- 
less had  a  lurking  respect  for  him,  inasmuch  as  mud  and  dirt 
are  among  the  elements  of  things  material,  and  therefore  par- 
take of  a  certain  mystery  and  divineness. 

7  Legions  of  sprites,  the  which  like  little  flies. 

Flies  are  old  embodiments  of  evil  spirits  ; — Anacreon  forbids  us 
to  call  them  incarnations,  in  reminding  us  that  insects  are  flesh- 
less  and  bloodless,  (ti'uiitooagxu.  Beelzebub  signifies  the  Lord  of 
Flics. 

8  The  world  of  waters  wide  and  deep. 

How  complete  a  sense  of  the  ocean  under  one  of  its  aspects  ! 
Spenser  had  often  been  at  sea,  and  his  pictures  of  it,  or  in  con- 
nexion with  it,  are  frequent  and  fine  accordingly,  superior  per- 
haps to  those  of  any  other  English  poet,  Milton  certainly,  ex- 
cept in  that  one  famous  imaginative  passage  in  which  he  de- 
scribes a  fleet  at  a  distance  as  seeming  to  "  hang  in  the  clouds." 
And  Shakspearc  throws  himself  wonderfully  into  a  storm  at  sea, 
as  if  he  had  been  in  the  thick  of  it ;  though  it  is  not  known  that 
he  ever  quitted  the  land.  But  nobody  talks  so  much  about  the 
sea,  or  its  inhabitants,  or  its  voyagers,  as  Spenser.  He  was 
well  acquainted  with  the  Irish  Channel.  Coleridge  observes, 
(ut  sup.)  that  "one  of  Spenser's  arts  is  that  of  alliteration,  which 
he  uses  with  great  effect  in  doubling  the  impression  of  an  image." 
The  verse  above  noticed  is  a  beautiful  example. 

9  To  Morpheus'  house  doth  hastily  repair,  &c 

Spenser's  earth  is  not  the  Homeric  earth,  a  circular  flat,  or  disc, 


60  SPENSER. 

studded  with  mountains,  and  encompassed  with  the  "  ocean 
stream."  Neither  is  it  in  all  cases  a  globe.  We  must  take 
his  cosmography  as  we  find,  and  as  he  wants  it ;  that  is  to  say, 
poetically,  and  according  to  the  feeling  required  by  the  matter 
in  hand.  In  the  present  instance,  we  are  to  suppose  a  precipi- 
tous country  striking  gloomily  and  far  downwards  to  a  cav- 
ernous sea-shore,  in  which  the  bed  of  Morpheus  is  placed,  the 
^nds  of  its  curtains  dipping  and  fluctuating  in  the  water,  which 
reaches  it  from  underground.  The  door  is  towards  a  flat  on  the 
fand-side,  with  dogs  lying  "  far  before  it  ;"  and  the  moonbeams 
reach  it,  though  the  sun  never  does.  The  passage  is  imitated 
from  Ovid  (Lib.  ii.,  ver.  592),  but  with  wonderful  concentration, 
and  superior  home  appeal  to  the  imagination,  Ovid  will  have  no 
dogs,  nor  any  sound  at  all  but  that  of  Lethe  rippling  over  its 
pebbles.  Spenser  has  dogs,  but  afar  off,  and  a  lulling  sound 
overhead  of  wind  and  rain.  These  are  the  sounds  that  men  de- 
light to  hear  in  the  intervals  of  their  own  sleep. 

J9  Wrapt  in  eternal  silence,  far  from  enemies. 

The  modulation  of  this  most  beautiful  stanza  (perfect,  except 
for  the  word  tumbling)  is  equal  to  that  of  the  one  describing  the 
hermitage,  and  not  the  less  so  for  being  less  varied  both  in  pauses 
and  in  vowels,  the  subject  demanding  a  greater  monotony.  A 
poetical  reader  need  hardly  be  told,  that  he  should  humor  such 
verses  with  a  corresponding  tone  in  the  recital.  Indeed  it  is 
difficult  to  read  them  without  lowering  or  deepening  the  voice, 
as  though  we  were  going  to  bed  ourselves,  or  thinking  of  the 
ruiny  night  that  lulled  us.  A  long  rest  at  the  happy  pause  in 
the  last  line,  and  then  a  strong  accent  on  the  word  far,  put  us 
in  }>ossession  of  all  the  remoteness  of  the  scene  ; — and  it  is  im- 
proved, if  we  make  a  similar  pause  at    Iteard  : 

No  other  noise,  or  people's  troublous  cries, 
As  still  are  wont  to  annoy  the  walled  town, 
Might  there  be  heard  ; — but  careless  quiet  lies, 
Wrapt  in  eternal  silence, — far  from  enemies. 

Upton,   one  of  Spenser's  commentators,  in  reference  to  the 


SPENSER.  61 


trickling  stream,  has  quoted  in  his  note  on  this  passage  some  fine 
lines  from  Chaucer,  in  which,  describing  the  "dark  valley"  of 
Sleep,  the  poet  says  there  was  nothing  whatsoever  in  the  place, 
save  that, 

A  few  wells 
Came  running  fro  the  clyffes  adowne, 
That  made  a  deadly  sleeping  sowne. 

Sowne  (in  the  old  spelling)  is  also  Spenser's  word.  In  the  text 
of  the  present  volume  it  is  written  soun',  to  show  that  it  is  the 
same  as  the  word  sound  without  the  d  ; — like  the  French  and 
Italian,  son,  suono. 

"  "Tis  hardly  possible,"  says  Upton,  "  for  a  more  picturesque 
description  to  come  from  a  poet  or  a  painter  than  this  whole 
magical  scene." — See  Todd's  Variorum  Spenser,  vol.  ii.,  p.  38. 

Meantime,  the  magician  has  been  moulding  a  shape  of  air  to 
represent  the  'virtuous  mistress  of  the  knight  ;  and  when  the 
dream  arrives,  he  sends  them  both  to  deceive  him,  the  one  sitting 
by  his  head  and  abusing  "  the  organs  of  his  fancy"  (as  Milton 
says  of  the  devil  with  Eve),  and  the  other  behaving  in  a  manner 
very  unlike  her  prototype.     The  delusion  succeeds  for  a  time. 

11  A  fit  false  dream  that  can  delude  the  sleeper's  sent. 

Scent,  sensation,  perception.  Skinner  says  that  sent,  which  we 
falsely  write  scent,  is  derived  a  sentiendo.  The  word  is  thus 
frequently  spelt  by  Spenser. — Todd. 

31  "  A  diverse  dream.'1'' — "  A  dream,"  says  Upton,  "  that  would 
occasion  diversity  or  distraction  ;  or  a  frightful,  hideous  dream, 
from  the  Italian,  sogno  diverso." — Dante,  Inferno,  canto  vi. 

Cerbero,  fiera  crudele  e  diversa. 

(Cerberus,  the  fierce  beast,  cruel  and  diverse.) 

Inferno,  Orlando  Innamorato,  Lib.  i.,  canto  4,  stanza  66. 

Un  grido  orribile  e  diverso. 

(There  rose  a  cry,  horrible  and  diverse),  &c. 

See  Todd's  Edition,  as  above,  p.  42. 


62  SPENSER. 


The  obvious  sense,  however,  as  in  the  case  of  Dante's  Cerberus, 
I  take  to  be  monstrously  varied, — inconsistent  with  itself.  The 
dream  is  to  make  the  knight's  mistress  contradict  her  natural 
character. 


THE     CAVE    OF    MAMMON 

AND 

GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE. 

Sir  Guyon,  crossing  a  desert,  finds  Mammon  sitting  amidst  his  gold  in  a 
gloomy  valley.  Mammon,  taking  him  down  into  his  cave,  tempts  him 
with  the  treasures  there,  and  also  with  those  in  the  Garden  of  Proserpine 

"  Spenser's  strength,"  says  Hazlitt,  "  is  not  strength  of  will 
or  action,  of  bone  and  muscle,  nor  is  it  coarse  and  palpable  ;  but 
it  assumes  a  character  of  vastness  and  sublimity  seen  through 
the  same  visionary  medium"  (he  has  just  been  alluding  to 
one),  and  blended  with  the  appalling  associations  of  preternatural 
agency.  We  need  only  turn  in  proof  of  this  to  the  Cave  of 
Despair,  or  the  Cave  of  Mammon,  or  to  the  account  of  the 
change  of  Malbecco  into  Jealousy." — Lectures,  p.  77. 

That  house's  form  within  was  rude  and  strong,13 
Like  a  huge  cave  hewn  out  of  rocky  clift, 
From  whose  rough  vault  the  ragged  branches  hung 
Embost  with  massy  gold  of  glorious  gift, 
And  with  rich  metal  loaded,  every  rift, 
That  heavy  ruin  they  did  seem  to  threat ; 
And  over  them  Arachne  high  did  lift 
Her  cunning  web,  and  spread  her  subtle  net, 
Enwrapped  in  foul  smoke,  and  clouds  more  black  than  jet. 

Both  roof  and  floor,  and  walls  were  all  of  gold, 
But  overgrown  with  dust  and  old  decay, 
And  hid  in  darkness,  that  none  could  behold 
The  hue  thereof;  for  view  of  chearful  day 
Did  never  in  that  house  itself  display, 


SPENSER.  63 


But  a  faint  shadoiv  of  uncertain  light ; 
Such  as  a  lamp,  whose  life  does  fade  away  ; 
Or  as  the  moon,  clothed  with  cloudy  night, 
Does  show  to  him  that  ivalks  in  fear  and  sad  affright. 

In  all  that  room  was  nothing  to  be  seen, 
But  huge  great  iron  chests  and  coffers  strong, 
All  barr'd  with  double  bands,  that  none  could  ween 
Them  to  enforce  by  violence  or  wrong ; 
On  every  side  they  placed  were  along ; 
But  all  the  ground  with  skulls  was  scattered, 
And  dead  men's  bones,  which  round  about  were  flung, 
Whose  lives  (it  seemed)  whilome  there  were  shed, 
And  their  vile  carcases  now  left  unburied. 

They  forward  pass,  nor  Guy  on  yet  spake  word, 
Till  that  they  came  unto  an  iron  door, 
Which  to  them  open'd  of  its  own  accord, 
And  show'd  of  riches  such  exceeding  store, 
As  eye  of  man  did  never  see  before, 
Nor  ever  could  within  one  place  be  found, 
Though  all  the  wealth  which  is,  or  was  of  yore, 
Could  gathered  be  through  all  the  world  around, 
And  that  above  were  added  to  that  under  ground. 

The  charge  thereof  unto  a  covetous  sprite 
Commanded  was,  who  thereby  did  attend, 
And  warily  awaited,  day  and  night, 
From  other  covetous  fiends  it  to  defend, 
Who  it  to  rob  and  ransack  did  intend. 
Then  Mammon  turning  to  that  warrior,  said : 
"  Lo  here  the  worlde's  bliss !  lo  here  the  end, 
To  which  all  men  do  aim,  rich  to  be  made  ! 
Such  grace  now  to  be  happy  is  before  thee  laid." 

"  Certes  "  (said  he)  "  I  n'ill  thine  offered  grace, '•* 
Nor  to  be  made  so  happy  do  intend  ; 
Another  bliss  before  mine  eyes  I  place, 
Another  happiness,  another  end  : 
To  them  that  list,  these  base  regards  I  lend  ; 
But  I  in  arms,  and  in  achievements  brave, 
Do  rather  choose  my  fitting  hours  to  spend, 
And  to  be  lord  of  those  that  riches  have, 
Than  them  to  have  myself,  and  be  their  servile  slave 
*  *  *  * 

w  N'ill,  ne-will,  will  not. 


64  SPENSER. 


The  Knight  is  led  further  on,  and  shown  more  treasures, 
and  afterwards  taken  into  the  palace  of  Ambition  ;  but  all  in 
vain. 

Mammon  emmoved  was  with  inward  wrath  ; 
Yet  forcing  it  to  fain,  him  forth  thence  led, 
Through  griesly  shadows,  by  a  beaten  path, 
Into  a  garden  goodly  garnished 

With  herbs  and  fruits,  whose  kinds  must  not  be  read  : 
Not  such  as  earth,  out  of  her  fruitful  womb,15 
Throws  forth  to  men,  sweet  and  well-savored, 
But  direful  deadly  black,  both  leaf  and  bloom, 
Fit  to  adorn  the  dead  and  deck  the  dreary  tomb. 

There  mournful  cypress  grew  in  greatest  store  ;16 
And  trees  of  bitter  gall ;  and  heben  sad  ; 
Dead  sleeping  poppy  :  and  black  hellebore  ; 
Cold  coloquintida  ;  and  tetra  mad  ; 
Mortal  samnitis;  and  cicuta  bad, 
With  which  the  unjust  Athenians  made  to  die 
Wise  Socrates,  who  therefore  quaffing  glad 
Pour'd  out  his  life  and  last  philosophy 
To  the  fair  Critias,  his  dearest  belamy  ! 

The  garden  of  Proserpina  this  hight  ;17 
And  in  the  midst  thereof  a  silver  seat, 
With  a  thick  arbor  goodly  over-dight, 
In  which  she  often  us'd  from  open  heat 
Herself  to  shroud,  and  pleasures  to  entreat : 
Next  thereunto  did  grow  a  goodly  tree, 
With  branches  broad  dispread  and  body  great, 
Clothed  with  leaves,  that  none  the  wood  might  see, 
And  loaded  all  with  fruit  as  thick  as  it  might  be. 

Their  fruit  were  golden  apples,  glistering  bright, 
That  goodly  was  their  glory  to  behold  ; 
On  earth  like  never  grew,  nor  living  wight 
Like  ever  saw,  but  they  from  hence  were  sold  ;18 
For  those,  which  Hercules  with  conquest  bold 
Got  from  great  Atlas'  daughters,  hence  began, 
And  planted  there  did  bring  forth  fruit  of  gold  ; 
And  those,  with  which  th'  Eubean  young  man  wan 
Swift  Atalanta,  when  through  craft  It*  her  out-ran. 


SPENSER.  65 


Here  also  sprung  that  goodly  golden  fruit, 
With  which  Acontius  got  his  lover  true, 
Whom  he  had  long  time  sought  with  fruitless  suit; 
Here  eke  that  famous  golden  apple  grew, 
The  which  amongst  the  gods  false  Ate  threw ; 
For  which    the  Idcean  ladies  disagreed,19 
Till  partial  Paris  deem'd  it  Venus'  due, 
And  had  of  her  fair  Helen  for  his  meed, 
That  many  noble  Greeks  and  Trojans  made  to  bleed. 

The  warlike  elf  much  wonder'd  at  this  tree 
So  fair  and  great,  that  shadowed  all  the  ground  ; 
And  his  broad  branches,  laden  with  rich  fee, 
Did  stretch  themselves  without  the  utmost  bound 
Of  this  great  garden,  compass' 'd  with  a  mound, 
Which  overhanging,  they  themselves  did  steep 
In  a  black  flood,  which  flowed  about  it  round.*0 
That  is  the  river  of  Cocytus  deep, 
In  which  full  many  souls  do  endless  wail  and  weep. 

Which  to  behold,  he  climb'd  up  to  the  bank  ; 
And,  looking  down,  saw  many  damned  wights 
In  those  sad  waves  which  direfull  deadly  stank,21 
Plunged  continually  of  cruel  sprites, 
That  with  their  piteous  cries  and  yelling  shrights 
They  made  the  further  shore  resounden  wide. 
Amongst  the  rest  of  those  same  rueful  sights, 
One  cursed  creature  he  by  chance  espied, 
That  drenched  lay  full  deep  under  the  garden  side. 

Deep  was  he  drenched  to  the  utmost  chin, 
Yet  gaped  still  as  coveting  to  drink 
Of  the  cold  liquor  which  he  waded  in  : 
And,  stretching  forth  his  hand,  did  often  think 
To  reach  the  food  which  grew  upon  the  brink ; 
But  both  the  fruit  from  hand  and  flood  from  mouth 
Did  fly  aback,  and  made  him  vainly  swinck, 
The  whiles  he  starv'd  with  hunger  and  with  droughth 
Ht  daily  died,  yet  never  thoroughly  dygn  couth*2 

The  knight,  him  seeing  labor  so  in  vain. 
Ask'd  who  he  was,  and  what  he  meant  thereoy  ! 
Who  groaning  deep,  thus  answered  him  again* 
"  Most  cursed  of  all  creatures  under  sky, 
Lo  !  Tantalus,  I  here  tormented  lie  ! 
Of  whom  high  Jove  wont  whilom  feasted  be! 
Lo  !  here  I  now  for  want  of  food  do  die  ! 
6 


SPENSER. 


But,  if  that  thou  be  such  as  I  thee  see, 
Of  grace  I  pray  thee  give  to  eat  and  drink  to  me  !" 

"  Nay,  nay,  thou  greedy  Tantalus"  quoth  he ; 
"  Abide  the  fortune  of  thy  present  fate  ; 
And  unto  all  that  live  in  high  degree, 
Example  be  of  mind  intemperate, 
To  teach  them  how  to  use  their  present  state." 
Then  'gan  the  cursed  wretch  aloud  to  cry, 
Accusing  highest  Jove  and  gods  ingrate  : 
And  eke  blaspheming  Heaven  bitterly, 
As  author  of  injustice,  there  to  let  him  die. 

He  look'd  a  little  further,  and  espied 
Another  wretch  whose  carcase  deep  was  drent 
Within  the  river  which  the  same  did  hide  : 
But  both  his  hands,  most  filthy  feculent, 
Above  the  water  were  on  high  extent, 
And  fain?  d  to  wash  themselves  incessantly, 
Yet  nothing  cleaner  were  for  such  intent, 
But  rather  fouler  seemed  to  the  eye ; 
So  lost  his  labor  vain,  and  idle  industry. 

The  knight  him  calling,  asked  who  he  was  r 
Who,  lifting  up  his  head,  him  answered  thus  : 
"  I  Pilate  am,23  the  falsest  judge,  alas  ! 
And  most  unjust ;  that,  by  unrighteous 
And  wicked  doom,  to  Jews  despiteous 
Delivered  up  the  Lord  of  Life  to  die, 
And  did  acquit  a  murderer  felonous ; 
The  whilst  my  hands  I  wash'd  in  purity ; 
The  whilst  my  soul  was  soil'd  with  foul  iniquity." 

Infinite  more  tormented  in  like  pain 
He  then  beheld,  too  long  here  to  be  told  : 
Nor  Mammon  would  there  let  him  long  remain, 
For  terror  of  the  tortures  manifold, 
In  which  the  damned  souls  he  did  behold, 
But  roughly  him  bespake  :  "  Thou  fearful  fool, 
Why  takest  not  of  that  same  fruit  of  gold ; 
Nor  sittest  down  on  that  same  silver  stool, 
To  rest  thy  weary  person  in  the  shady  cool !" 

All  which  he  did  to  do  him  deadly  fall 
In  frail  intemperance  through  sinful  bait; 
To  which  if  he  inclined  had  at  all, 


SPENSER.  67 


That  dreadful  fiend,  which  did  behind  him  wait, 
Would  him  have  rent  in  thousand  pieces  straight: 
But  he  was  wary  wise  in  all  his  way, 
And  well  perceived  his  deceitful  sleight, 
Nor  suffered  lust  his  safety  to  betray  : 
So  goodly  did  beguile  the  guiler  of  his  prey. 

And  now  he  has  so  long  remained  there, 
That  vital  power  'gan  wax  both  weak  and  wan 
For  want  of  food  and  sleep,  which  two  upbear, 
Like  mighty  pillars,  this  frail  life  of  man, 
That  none  without  the  same  enduren  can ; 
For  now  three  days  of  men  were  full  outwrought, 
Since  he  this  hardy  enterprise  began : 
Therefore  great  Mammon  fairly  he  besought 
Into  the  world  to  guide  him  back,  as  he  him  brought. 

The  god,  though  loth,  yet  was  constrain'd  t'  obey , 
For  longer  time  than  that  no  living  wight 
Below  the  earth  might  suffered  be  to  stay : 
So  back  again  him  brought  to  living  light. 
But  all  as  soon  as  his  enfeebled  sprite 
'Gan  suck  this  vital  air  into  his  breast, 
As  overcome  with  too  exceeding  might, 
The  life  did  flit  away  out  of  her  nest, 
And  all  his  senses  were  in  deadly  fit  opprest. 

13  That  house's  form  within  was  rude  and  strong,  &c. 

Hazlitt,  with  his  fine  poetical  taste,  speaking  of  the  two  stan- 
zas here  following,  and  the  previous  one  beginning,  And  over 
all,  SfC,  says,  that  they  are  unrivalled  for  the  "  portentous  mas- 
siveness  of  the  forms,  the  splendid  chiaroscuro  and  shadowy 
horror," — "  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets,"  third  edition,  p.  77. 
It  is  extraordinary  that  in  the  new  "Elegant  Extracts,"  pub- 
lished under  his  name,  seven  lines  of  the  first  stanza,  beginning 
at  the  words,  "  from  whose  rough  vault,"  are  left  out.  Their 
exceeding  weight,  the  contrast  of  the  dirt  and  squalor  with  the 
gold,  and  the  spider's  webs  dusking  over  all,  compose  chief  part 
of  the  grandeur  of  the  description  (as  indeed  he  has  just  said). 
Hogarth,  by  the  way,  has  hit  upon  the  same  thought  of  a  spider's 
web  for  his  poor's-box,  in  the  wedding-scene  in  Mary-le-bone 
church.     So  do  tragedy  and  comedy  meet. 

•5  «  Not  such  as  earth,"  &c— Upton  thinks  it  not  unlikely  that 


G8  SPENSER. 


Spenser  imagined  the  direful  deadly  and  black  fruits  which 
this  infernal  garden  bears,  from  a  like  garden  which  Dante 
describes,  Inferno,  canto  xiii.,  v.  4. 

Non  frondi  verdi,  ma  di  color  fosco, 
Non  rami  schietti,  ma  nodosi  e'nvolti, 
Non  pomi  v'  eran,  ma  stecchi  con  tosco. 

(No  leaves  of  green  were  theirs,  but  dusky  sad ; 
No  fair  straight  boughs,  but  gnarl'd  and  tangled  all : 
No  rounded  fruits,  but  poison-bearing  thorns.) 

Dante's  garden,  however,  has  no  flowers.  It  is  a  human 
grove  ;  that  is  to  say,  made  of  trees  that  were  once  human  be- 
ingS) — an  aggravation  (according  to  his  customary  improve- 
ment  upon  horrors)  of  a  like  solitary  instance  in  Virgil,  which 
Spenser  has  also  imitated  in  his  story  of  Fradubio,  book  i., 
canto  2,  st.  30. 

io  There  mournful  cypress  grew  in  greatest  store,  &c. 

Among  the  trees  and  flowers  here  mentioned,  helen,  is  ebony ; 
coloquintida,  the  bitter  gourd  or  apple  ;  tetra,  the  tetrum  solanum, 
or  deadly  night-shade  ;  samnitis,  Upton  takes  to  be  the  Sabine, 
or  savine-tree  ;  and  cicuta  is  the  hemlock,  which  Socrates 
drank  when  he  poured  out  to  his  friends  his  "last  philosophy." 
How  beautifully  said  is  that!  But  the  commentators  have  shown 
that  it  was  a  slip  of  memory  in  the  poet  to  make  Critias  their 
representative  on  the  occasion, — that  apostate  from  his  philoso- 
phy not  having  been  present.  Belamy  is  lei  ami,  fair  friend, — 
a  phrase  answering  to  good  friend,  in  the  old  French  writers. 

17  The  garden  of  Proserpina  this  hight. 

The  idea  of  a  garden  and  a  golden  tree  for  Proserpina  is  in 
Claudian,  Be  Raptu  Proserpina,  lib.  ii.,  v.  290.  But  Spenser 
has  made  the  flowers  funereal,  and  added  the  "  silver  seat," — 
a  strong  yet  still  delicate  contrast  to  the  black  flowers,  and  in 
cold  sympathy  with  them.  It  has  also  a  certain  fair  and  lady- 
like fitness  to  the  possessor  of  the  arbor.  May  I  venture,  with 
all  reverence  to  Spenser,  to  express  a  wish  that  he*  had  made  a 


SPENSER.  69 

compromise  with  the  flowers  of  Claudian,  and  retained  them  by 
the  side  of  the  others?  Proserpine  was  an  unwilling  bride, 
though  she  became  a  reconciled  wife.  She  deserved  to  enjoy 
her  Sicilian  flowers  ;  and  besides,  in  possessing  a  nature  supe- 
rior to  her  position,  she  would  not  be  without  innocent  and 
cheerful  thoughts.  Perhaps,  however,  our  "  sage  and  serious 
Spenser"  would  have  answered,  that  she  could  see  into  what 
was  good  in  these  evil  flowers,  and  so  get  a  contentment  from 
objects  which  appeared  only  melancholy  to  others.  It  is  cer- 
tainly a  high  instance  of  modern  imagination,  this  venturing  to 
make  a  pleasure-garden  out  of  the  flowers  of  pain. 

18  "  But  they  from  hence  were  sold:''— Upton  proposes  that  "  with  a 
little  variation,"  this  word  sold  should  be  read  stold  ;  "that  is," 
says  he,  "  procured  by  stealth  :" — he  does  not  like  to  say  stolen. 
"  The  wise  convey  it  call."  Spenser  certainly  would  have  no 
objection  to  spell  the  word  in  any  way  most  convenient ;  and  I 
confess  I  wish,  with  Upton,  that  he  had  exercised  his  licence  in 
this  instance ;  though  he  might  have  argued,  that  the  infernal 
powers  are  not  in  the  habit  of  letting  people  have  their  goods  for 
nothing.  In  how  few  of  the  instances  that  follow  did  the  pos- 
session of  the  golden  apples  turn  out  well !  Are  we  sure  that  it 
prospered  in  any  ?  For  Acontius  succeeded  with  his  apple  by 
a  trick;  and  after  all,  as  the  same  commentator  observes,  it  was 
not  with  a  golden  apple,  but  common  mortal-looking  fruit,  though 
gathered  in  the  garden  of  Venus.  He  wrote  a  promise  upon  it 
to  marry  him,  and  so  his  mistress  read,  and  betrothed  herself. 
The  story  is  in  Ovid  :  Heroides,  Epist.  xx.,  xxi. 

19 For  which  the  Idaan  ladies  disagreed. 

"  He  calls  the  three  goddesses  that  contended  for  the  prize  of 
beauty,  boldly  but  elegantly  enough,  Idsean  Ladies." — Jortin. 
"He  calls  the  Muses  and  the  Graces  likewise,  Ladies." — 
Church.  "  The  ladies  may  be  further  gratified  by  Milton's 
adaptation  of  their  title  to  the  celebrated  daughters  of  Hespe- 
rus, whom  he  calls  Ladies  of  the  Hesperides." — Todd.  The 
ladies  of  the  present  day,  in  which  so  much  good  poetry  and 
reading  have  revived,  will   smile  at  the  vindication  of  a  word 


70  SPENSER. 

again   become  common,  and  so  frequent  in  the  old  poets  and 
romancers. 

20  Winch  overhanging,  they  themselves  did  steep 
In  a  black  flood  f  which  flowed  about  it  round,  &c. 

The  tree,  observe,  grew  in  the  middle  of  "  this  great  garden," 
and  yet  overhung  its  utmost  bounds,  and  steeped  itself  in  the 
black  river  by  which  it  was  encircled.  We  are  to  imagine  the 
branches  with  their  fruit  stretching  over  the  garden  like  one 
enormous  arbor  or  trellice,  and  mixing  a  certain  lustrous  light 
with  the  gloom  and  the  funereal  flowers.  You  walk  in  the 
shadow  of  a  golden  death.  What  an  excessive  and  gorgeous 
luxury  beside  the  blackness  of  hell ' 

51  And  looking  down  saw  many  damned  ivights 
In  those  sad  waves  which  direful  deadly  stank, 
Plunged  continually  of  cruel  sprites, 
That  with  their  piteous  cries,  &c. 

Virgil  appears  to  have  been  the  first  who  ventured  to  find 
sublimity  in  a  loathsome  odor.  I  say  "  appears,"  because 
many  Greek  writers  have  perished  whom  he  copied,  and  it  is 
probable  the  invention  was  theirs.  A  greater  genius,  Dante, 
followed  him  in  this,  as  in  other  respects ;  and,  probably,  would 
have  set  the  example  had  it  not  been  given  him.  Sackville  fol- 
lowed both  ;  and  the  very  excess  of  Spenser's  sense  of  the 
beautiful  and  attractive  would  render  him  fully  aware  of  the 
capabilities  of  this  intensity  of  the  repulsive.  Burke  notices 
the  subject  in  his  treatise  On  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful.  The 
following  is  the  conclusion  of  his  remarks  : — "  It  is  one  of  the 
tests  by  which  the  sublimity  of  an  image  is  to  be  tried,  not 
whether  it  becomes  mean  when  associated  with  mean  ideas,  but 
whether,  when  united  with  images  of  an  allowed  grandeur,  the 
whole  composition  is  supported  with  dignity.  Things  which  are 
torrible  are  always  great ;  but  when  things  possess  disagreeable 
qualities,  or  such  as  have  indeed  some  degree  of  danger,  but  of 
a  danger  easily  overcome,  they  are  merely  odious,  as  toads  and 
spiders." — Part  the  Second,  Section  the  Twenty-first.  Both  points 


SPENSER.  71 


are  easily  illustrated.  Passing  by  a  foul  ditch,  you  are  simply 
disgusted,  and  turn  aside ;  but  imagine  yourself  crossing  a 
mountain,  and  coming  upon  a  hot  and  slimy  valley  in  which  a 
pestilential  vapor  ascends  from  a  city,  the  inhabitants  of  which 
have  died  of  the  plague  and  been  left  unburied  ;  or  fancy  the 
great  basin  of  the  Caspian  Sea  deprived  of  its  waters,  and  the 
horror  which  their  refuse  would  send  up  over  the  neighboring 
regions. 

22  He  daily  died,  yet  never  thoroughly  dySn  couth. 

Die  could  ;  he  never  could  thoroughly  die.  Truly  horrible  ; 
and,  as  Swift  says  of  his  hanging  footman,  "  very  satisfactory 
to  the  beholders."  Yet  Spenser's  Tantalus,  and  his  Pontius 
Pilate,  and  indeed  the  whole  of  this  latter  part  of  his  hell, 
strike  us  with  but  a  poor  sort  of  cruelty  compared  with  any  like 
number  of  pages  out  of  the  tremendous  volume  of  Dante.  But 
the  far  greater  part  of  our  extract,  the  sooty  golden  cave  of 
Mammon,  and  the  mortal  beauty  of  the  garden  of  Proserpine, 
with  its  golden  fruit  hanging  in  the  twilight ;  all,  in  short,  in 
which  Spenser  combines  his  usual  luxury  with  grandeur,  are  as 
fine  as  anything  of  the  kind  which  Dante  or  any  one  else  ever 
conceived. 

S3  "  I  Pilate  am,"  &c.  Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  I  intend  the 
slightest  glance  of  levity  towards  the  divine  name  which  has 
become  identified  with  charity.  But  charity  itself  will  allow  us 
to  imagine  the  astonishment  of  this  Roman  Governor  of  Jerusa- 
lem, could  he  have  foreseen  the  destinies  of  his  name.  He 
doubtless  thought,  that  if  another  age  spoke  of  him  at  all,  it 
would  treat  him  as  a  good-natured  man  who  had  to  rule  over  a 
barbarous  people,  and  make  a  compromise  between  his  better 
judgment  and  their  prejudices.  No  name,  except  Judas's,  has 
received  more  execration  from  posterity.  Our  good-natured 
poet  has  here  put  him  in  the  "  loathly  lakes  "  of  Tartarus. 


72  SPENSER. 


A   GALLERY   OF   PICTURES    FROM   SPENSER. 

SPENSER  CONSIDERED  AS  THE  POET    OF  THE    PAINTERS. 

It  has  been  a  whim  of  late  years  with  some  transcendental  critics, 
in  the  excess  of  the  reaction  of  what  may  be  called  spiritual 
poetry  against  material,  to  deny  utterly  the  old  family  relation- 
ship between  poetry  and  painting.  They  seem  to  think  that 
because  Darwin  absurdly  pronounced  nothing  to  be  poetry  which 
could  not  be  painted,  they  had.only  to  avail  themselves  of  the 
spiritual  superiority  of  the  art  of  the  poet,  and  assert  the  con- 
trary extreme.  Now,  it  is  granted  that  the  subtlest  creations  of 
poetry  are  neither  effected  by  a  painter-like  process,  nor  limited 
to  his  powers  of  suggestion.  The  finest  idea  the  poet  gives  you 
of  anything  is  by  what  may  be  called  sleight  of  mind,  striking 
it  without  particular  description  on  the  mind  of  the  reader, 
feeling  and  all,  moral  as  well  as  physical,  as  a  face  is  struck  on 
a  mirror.  But  to  say,  nevertheless,  that  the  poet  does  not  in- 
clude the  painter  in  his  more  visible  creations,  is  to  deprive  him 
of  half  his  privileges,  nay,  of  half  his  very  poems.  Thousands 
of  images  start  out  of  the  canvass  of  his  pages  to  laugh  at  the 
assertion.  Where  did  the  great  Italian  painters  get  half  of  the 
most  bodily  details  of  their  subjects  but  out  of  the  poets  ?  and 
what  becomes  of  a  thousand  landscapes,  portraits,  colors,  lights 
and  shades,  groupings,  effects,  intentional  and  artistical  pictures, 
in  the  writings  of  all  the  poets  inclusive,  the  greatest  especially  ? 
I  have  taken  opportunity  of  this  manifest  truth  to  introduce 
under  one  head  a  variety  of  the  most  beautiful  passages  in 
Spenser,  many  of  which  might  otherwise  have  seemed  too 
small  for  separate  exhibition  ;  and  I  am  sure  that  the  more  po- 
etical the  reader,  the  more  will  he  be  delighted  to  see  these 
manifestations    of  the    pictorial    side   of   poetry.     He    will   not 


SPENSER.  73 


find  them  destitute  of  that  subtler  spirit  of  the  art,  which  picture 
cannot  express. 

"  After  reading,"  said  Pope,  "  a  canto  of  Spenser  two  or 
three  days  ago  to  an  old  lady,  between  seventy  and  eighty  years 
of  age,  she  said  that  I  had  been  showing  her  a  gallery  of  pic- 
tures. I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  she  said  very  right.  There 
is  something  in  Spenser  that  pleases  one  as  strongly  in  old  age 
as  it  did  in  one's  youth.  I  read  the  Faerie  Queene,  when  I 
was  about  twelve,  with  infinite  delight ;  and  I  think  it  gave  me 
as  much,  when  I  read  it  over  about  a  year  or  two  ago." — 
Spencers  Anecdotes. 

The  canto  that  Pope  here  speaks  of  was  probably  one  of  the 
most  allegorical  sort,  very  likely  that  containing  the  Mask  of 
Cupid.  In  the  one  preceding  it,  there  is  a  professed  gallery  of 
pictures,  supposed  to  be  painted  on  tapestry.  But  Spenser's 
allegorical  pictures  are  only  his  most  obvious  ones :  he  has  a 
profusion  of  others,  many  of  them  still  more  exquisitely  painted. 
I  think  that  if  he  had  not  been  a  great  poet,  he  would  have  been 
a  great  painter ;  and  in  that  case  there  is  ground  for  believing 
that  England  would  have  possessed,  and  in  the  person  of  one 
man,  her  Claude,  her  Annibal  Caracci,  her  Correggio,  her 
Titian,  her  Rembrandt,  perhaps  even  her  Raphael.  I  suspect 
that  if  Spenser's  history  were  better  known,  we  should  find  that 
he  was  a  passionate  student  of  pictures,  a  haunter  of  the  col- 
lections of  his  friends  Essex  and  Leicester.  The  tapestry  just 
alluded  to,  he  criticises  with  all  the  gusto  of  a  connoisseur,  per- 
haps with  an  eye  to  pictures  in  those  very  collections.  In 
speaking  of  a  Leda,  he  says,  bursting  into  an  admiration  of  the 
imaginary  painter, 

O,  wondrous  skill  and  sweet  wit  of  the  man, 

That  her  in  daffodillies  sleeping  made, 

From  scorching  heather  dainty  limbs  to  shade! 

And  then  he  proceeds  with  a  description  full  of  life  and  beauty, 
but  more  proper  to  be  read  with  the  context  than  brought  for- 
ward separately.  The  coloring  implied  in  these  lines  is  in  the 
very  core  of  the  secret  of  that  branch  of  the  art ;  and  the  un- 


74  SPENSER. 


painted  part  of  the  tapestry  is  described  with  hardly  less 
beauty. 

For,  round  about,  the  walls  y  clothed  were 
With  goodly  arras  of  great  majesty, 
Woven  with  gold  and  silk  so  close  and  near, 
That  the  rich  metal  lurked  privily, 
As  feigning  to  be  hid  from  envious  eye ; 
Yet  here,  and  there,  and  everywhere,  unwares 
It  show'd  itself,  and  shone  unwillingly  ; 
Like  to  a  discolor' d  snake,  whose  hidden  snares 
Through  the  green  grass  his  long  bright  burnish' d  back  declares. 

Spenser  should  have  a  new  set  of  commentators, — the  painters 
themselves.  They  might  do  for  him  in  their  own  art,  what 
Warton  did  in  his, — trace  him  among  his  brethren.  Certainly 
no  works  would  "  illustrate"  better  than  Spenser's  with  engrav- 
ings from  the  old  masters  (I  should  like  no  better  amusement 
than  to  hunt  him  through  the  print-shops !),  and  from  none  might 
a  better  gallery  be  painted  by  new  ones.  I  once  wrote  an  arti- 
cle on  the  subject  in  a  magazine  ;  and  the  late  Mr.  Hilton  (I  do 
not  know  whether  he  saw  it)  projected  such  a  gallery,  among 
his  other  meritorious  endeavors.  It  did  not  answer  to  the  origin- 
als, either  in  strength  or  sweetness  ;  but  a  very  creditable  and 
pleasing  specimen  may  be  seen  in  the  National  Gallery, — Sere- 
na rescued  from  the  Savages  by  Sir  C  ale  pine. 

In  corroboration  of  the  delight  which  Spenser  took  in  this  more 
visible  kind  of  poetry,  it  is  observable  that  he  is  never  more  free 
from  his  superfluousness  than  when  painting  a  picture.  When 
he  gets  into  a  moral,  or  intellectual,  or  narrative  vein,  we  might 
often  spare  him  a  good  deal  of  the  flow  of  it ;  but  on  occasions  of 
sheer  poetry  and  painting,  he  is  too  happy  to  wander  so  much 
from  his  point.  If  he  is  tempted  to  expatiate,  every  word  is  to 
the  purpose.  Poetry  and  painting  indeed  would  in  Spenser  be 
identical,  if  they  could  be  so  ;  and  they  are  more  so,  too,  than  it 
has  latterly  been  the  fashion  to  allow  ;  for  painting  does  not  deal 
in  the  purely  visible.  It  deals  also  in  the  suggestive  and  the 
allusive,  therefore  in  thoughts  beyond  the  visible  proof  of  the 
canvass  ;  in  intimations  of  sound  ;  in  references  to  the  past  and 
future.     Still  the  medium  is  a  visible  one,  and  is  at  the  mercy  of 


SPENSER.  75 


the  spectator's  amount  of  comprehension.  The  great  privilege 
of  the  poet  is,  that,  using  the  medium  of  speech,  he  can  make  his 
readers  poets  ;  can  make  them  aware  and  possessed  of  what  he 
intends,  enlarging  their  comprehension  by  his  details,  or  enlight- 
ening it  by  a  word.  A  painter  might  have  the  same  feeling  as 
Shakspeare  respecting  the  moonlight  "  sleeping"  on  a  bank  ; 
but  how  is  he  to  evince  it  ?  He  may  go  through  a  train  of  the 
profoundest  thoughts  in  his  own  mind  ;  but  into  what  voluminous 
fairy  circle  is  he  to  compress  them  ?  Poetry  can  paint  whole 
galleries  in  a  page,  while  her  sister  art  requires  heaps  of  can- 
vass to  render  a  few  of  her  poems  visible. 

This,  however,  is  what  everybody  knows.  Not  so,  that  Spen- 
ser emulated  the  Raphaels  and  Titians  in  a  profusion  of  pic- 
tures, many  of  which  are  here  taken  from  their  loalls.  They 
give  the  Poet's  Poet  a  claim  to  a  new  title, — that  of  Poet  of  the 
Painters.  The  reader  has  seen  what  Mr.  Hazlitt  says  of  him  in 
connection  with  Rubens  ;  but  the  passage  adds,  what  I  have 
delayed  quoting  till  now,  that  "  none  but  Rubens  could  have 
painted  the  fancy  of  Spenser;"  adding  further,  that  Rubens 
"could  not  have  painted  the  sentiment,  the  airy  dream  that 
hovers  over  it."  I  venture  to  think  that  this  fine  critic  on  the 
two  sister  arts  wrote  the  first  of  these  sentences  hastily  ;  and  that 
the  truth  of  the  second  would  have  shown  him,  on  reflection, 
with  what  painters,  greater  than  Rubens,  the  poet  ought  to  have 
been  compared.  The  great  Fleming  was  a  man  of  a  genius  as 
fine  and  liberal  as  his  nature  ;  yet  who  that  looks  for  a  moment 
at  the  pictures  which  ensue,  shall  say  that  he  would  have  been 
justified  in  putting  his  name  to  them  ?  Sentiments  and  airy 
dreams  hover  over  them  all, — say  rather,  abide  and  brood  over 
many, — with  such  thoug.htfulncss  as  the  Italian  aspect  can  only 
match.  More  surprising  is  Mr.  Coleridge's  assertion,  that 
Spenser's  descriptions  are  "  not,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word, 
picturesque  ;  but  composed  of  a  wondrous  series  of  images,  as 
in  dreams."  Lectures  (ut  sup.),  vol.  i.,  p.  93.  If,  by  true 
sense  of  the  word,  he  means  the  acquired  sense  of  piquancy  ot 
contrast,  or  a  certain  departure  from  the  smoothness  of  beauty  in 
order  to  enhance  it,  Spenser  certainly  is  not  in  the  habit  of  put- 
ting many  thorns  in  his  roses.     His  bowers  of  bliss,  he  thought, 


7c  SPENSER. 


did  not  demand  it.  The  gentle  beast  that  Una  rode,  would  not 
have  cut  a  very  piquant  figure  in  the  forest  scenery  of  Mr.  Gil- 
pin. But  if  Coleridge  means  picturesque  in  the  sense  of  fit- 
ness for  picture,  and  very  striking  fitness,  then  the  recollections 
of  the  masks,  or  the  particular  comparison  of  Prince  Arthur's 
crest  with  the  almond  tree  (which  is  the  proof  he  adduces)  made 
him  forget  the  innumerable  instances  in  which  the  pictorial 
power  is  exhibited.  Nor  was  Spenser  unaware,  nay,  he  was 
deeply  sensible  of  the  other  feelings  of  the  picturesque,  as  may 
be  seen  in  his  sea-gods'  beards  (when  Proteus  kisses  Amoret), 
his  "  rank  grassy  fens,"  his  "  weeds  of  glorious  feature,"  his 
oaks  "  half  dead,"  his  satyrs,  gloomy  lights,  beautiful  but  unlucky 
grounds,  &c,  &c,  &c.  (for  in  this  sense  of  the  word,  there  are 
feelings  of  the  invisible  corresponding  with  the  stronger  forms  of 
the  picturesque).  He  has  himself  noticed  the  theory  in  his  Bower 
of  Bliss,  and  thus  anticipated  the  modern  taste  in  landscape 
gardening,  the  idea  of  which  is  supposed  to  have  originated  with 
Milton : 

One  would  have  thought  (so  cunningly  the  rude 
Jlnd  scorned  parts  were  mingled  with  the  fine) 
That  Nature  had  for  wantonness  ensued 
Art,  and  that  Art  at  Nature  did  repine. 
So,  striving  each  the  other  to  undermine, 
Each  did  the  other's  work  more  beautify. 

But  the  reader  will  judge  for  himself. 

I  have  attached  to  each  of  the  pictures  in  this  Spenser  Gal- 
lery the  name  of  the  painter,  of  whose  genius  it  reminded  me ; 
and  I  think  the  connoisseur  will  allow,  that  the  assignment  was 
easy,  and  that  the  painter-poet's  range  of  art  is  equally  wide  and 
wonderful. 


SPENSER.  77 


CHARISSA;  OR,  CHARITY. 
Character,  Spiritual  Love  ;  Painter  for  it,  Raphael. 

She  was  a  woman  in  her  freshest  age, 
Of  wondrous  beauty  and  of  bounty  rare, 
With  goodly  grace  and  comely  personage, 
That  was  on  earth  not  easy  to  compare  ; 
Full  of  great  love  ;  but  Cupid's  wanton  snare 
As  hell  she  hated,  chaste  in  work  and  will ; 
Her  neck  and  breasts  were  ever  open  bare, 
That  ay  thereof  her  babes  might  suck  their  fill ; 
The  rest  was  all  in  yellow  robes  arrayed  still. 

A  multitude  of  babes  about  her  hung 
Playing  their  sports,  that  joyed  her  to  behold, 
Whom  still  she  fed,  whilst  they  were  weak  and  young, 
But  thrust  them  forth  still  as  they  waxed  old ; 
And  on  her  head  she  wore  a  tire  of  gold 
Adorn'd  with  gems  and  owches  wondrous  fair,* 
Whose  passing  price  uneathf  was  to  be  told ; 
And  by  her  side  there  sate  a  gentle  pair24 
Of  turtle  doves,  she  silting  in  an  ivory  chair. 

a*  "  And  by  her  side"  &c     This  last  couplet  brings  at  once  be- 
fore us  all  the  dispassionate  graces  and  unsuperfiuous  treatmen 
of  Raphael's  allegorical  females. 

*  Owches  wondrous  fair.     Owches  are  carcanets  or  ranges  of  jewels. 
t   Uneath.     Scarcely,  with  difficulty. 


7*  SPENSER. 


HOPE. 

Character,  Sweetness  without  Devotedness  ;  Painter,  Correggio. 

With  him  went  Hope  in  rank,  a  handsome  maid, 
Of  cheerful  look,  and  lovely  to  behold: 
In  silken  samite  she  was  light  array'd, 
And  her  fair  locks  were  woven  up  in  gold.iS 
She  alway  smiVd  ; — and  in  her  hand  did  hold 
An  holy-water  sprinkle  dipp'd  in  dew, 
With  which  she  sprinkled  favors  manifold 
On  whom  she  list  and  did  great  liking  shew ; 
Great  liking  unto  many,  but  true  love  to  few. 

25  "  And  her  fair  locks,"  &c.  What  a  lovely  line  is  that!  and 
with  a  beauty  how  simple  and  sweet  is  the  sentiment  portrayed 
in  the  next  three  words, — "  She  alway  smil'd  !"  But  almost 
every  line  of  the  stanza  is  lovely,  including  the  felicitous  Catho- 
lic image  of  the 

Holy-water  sprinkle  dipp'd  in  dew. 
Correggio  is  in  every  color  and  expression  of  the  picture. 


CUPID  USURPING  THE  THRONE  OF  JUPITER. 

Character,  Potency  in  Weakness  ;  Painter,  the  same. 

In  Satyr's  shape,  Antiope  he  snatch'd 
And  like  a  fire,  when  he  ^Egine  essay'd ; 
A  shepherd,  when  Mnemosyne  he  catch'd  ; 
And  like  a  serpent  to  the  Thracian  maid. 
While  thus  on  earth  great  Jove  these  pageants  play'd, 
The  winged  boy  did  thrust  into  his  throne  ; 
And  scoffing,  thus  unto  his  mother  said  : 
"  Lo  !  now  the  heavens  obey  to  me  alone, 
And  take  me  for  their  Jove,  whilst  Jove  to  earth  is  gone." 


SPENSER.  79 


MARRIAGE  PROCESSION  OF  THE  THAMES  AND  MEDWAY. 

Character,  Genial  Strength,  Grace,  and  Luxury ,  Painter, 

Raphael. 

First  came  great  Neptune  with  his  three-fork'd  mace, 
That  rules  the  seas  and  makes  them  rise  or  fall ; 
His  dewy  locks  did  drop  with  brine  apace, 

Under  his  diadem  imperial ; 
And  by  his  side  his  queen,  with  coronal, 
Fair  Amphitrite,  most  divinely  fair, 

Whose  ivory  shoulders  weren  covered  all, 
As  with  a  robe,  with  her  own  silver  hair, 
And  deck'd  with  pearls  which  the  Indian  seas  for  her  prepare. 

These  marched  far  afore  the  other  crew, 
And  all  the  way  before  them  as  they  went 
Triton  his  trumpet  shrill  before  him  blew, 
For  goodly  triumph  and  great  jolliment, 
That  made  the  rocks  to  roar  as  they  were  rent. 

Or  take  another  part  of  the  procession,  with  dolphins  and  sea- 
nymphs  listening  as  they  went,  to 

ARION\ 

Then  was  there  heard  a  most  celestial  sound 
Of  dainty  music,  which  did  next  ensue 
Before  the  spouse.      That  was  Arion  crown  d  ; 
Who  playing  on  his  harp,  unto  him  drew 
The  ears  and  hearts  of  all  that  goodly  crew ; 
That  even  yet  the  dolphin  which  him  bore 
Through  the  ^Egean  seas  from  pirates  view 
Stood  still  by  him,  astonish'd  at  his  lore, 
And  all  the  raging  seas  for  joy  forgot  to  roar. 

So  went  he  playing  on  the  watery  plain.se 
M  "  So  went  he,"  &c.     This  sweet,  placid,  and  gently  progressing 


80  SPENSER. 


line  is  one  of  Spenser's  happy  samples  of  alliteration.     And 
how  emphatic  is  the  information — 


That  was  Anon,  crown'd. 


SIR  GUYON  BINDING  FUROR. 
Character,  Superhuman  Energy,  and  Rage  ;  Painter,  Michael  Angela 

In  his  strong  arms  he  stiffly  him  embrac'd, 
Who,  him  gain-striving,  naught  at  all  prevail'd ; 
Then  him  to  ground  he  cast  and  rudely  haled, 
And  both  his  hands  fast  bound  behind  his  back, 
And  both  his  feet  in  fetters  to  an  iron  rack. 

With  hundred  iron  chains  he  did  him  bind, 
And  hundred  knots  that  him  did  sore  constrain; 
Yet  his  great  iron  teeth  he  still  did  grind 
And  grimly  gnash,  threat'ning  revenge  in  vain. 
His  burning  eyes,  whom  bloody  streaks  did  stain, 
Stared  full  wide,  and  threw  forth  sparks  of  fire  , 
And  more  for  rank  despite,  than  for  great  pain, 
Shak'd  his  long  locks,  color'd  like  copper  wire,2" 
And  bit  his  tawny  beard,  to  show  his  raging  ire. 

27  "  Color'd  like  copper  wire."  A  felicity  suggested  perhaps  by 
the  rhyme.  It  has  all  the  look,  however,  of  a  copy  from  some 
oainting ;  perhaps  one  of  Julio  Romano's. 


UNA  (OR  FAITH  IN  DISTRESS). 
Character,  Loving  and  Sorrowful  Purity  glorified". 
(May  I  say,  that  I  think  it  would  take  Raphael  and  Correggio 


SPENSER.  81 


united  to  paint  this,  on  account  of  the  exquisite  chiaroscuro  ? 
Or  might  not  the  painter  of  the  Magdalen  have  it  all  to  himself  ?) 

Yet  she,  most  faithful  lady,  all  this  while,23 
Forsaken,  woful,  solitary  maid, 
Far  from  all  people's  press,  as  in  exile, 
In  wilderness  and  wasteful  deserts  stray'd, 
To  seek  her  knight,  who  subtily  betray'd 
Through  that  late  vision  which  the  enchanter  wrought, 
Had  her  abandon'd.     She,  of  naught  afraid, 
Through  woods  and  wasteness  wide  him  daily  sought, 
Yet  wished  tidings  none  of  him  unto  her  brought 

One  day  nigh  weary  of  the  irksome  way, 
From  her  unhasty  beast  she  did  alight, 
And  on  the  grass  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secret  shadow  far  from  all  men's  sight : 
From  her  fair  head  her  fillet  she  undight 
And  laid  her  stole  aside  :  her  angels  face 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven  shinid  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place  ; 
Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 

It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 
A  ramping  lion  rushed  suddenly, 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  savage  blood  : 
Soon  as  the  royal  virgin  he  did  spy, 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily, 
To  have  at  once  devour'd  her  tender  corse ; 
But  to  the  prey  when  as  he  drew  more  nigh, 
His  bloody  rage  assuaged  with  remorse, 
And  with  the  sight  amaz'd,  forgot  his  furious  force. 

Instead  thereof  he  kiss'd  her  weary  feet, 
And  lick'd  her  lily  hand  with  fawning  tongue  ; 
As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet. 
0  how  can  beauty  master  the  most  strong, 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong  ! 
Whose  yielded  pride  and  proud  submission, 
Still  dreading  death  when  she  had  marked  long 
Her  heart  'gan  melt  in  great  compassi5n : 
And  drizzling  tears  did  shed  for  pure  affection. 

"  The  lion,  lord  of  every  beast  in  field," 
Quoth  she,  "  his  princely  puissance  doth  abate. 
And  mightv  proud  to  humble  weak  does  yield, 
7 


82  SPENSER. 


Forgetful  of  the  hungry  rage,  which  late 
Him  prick'd  with  pity  of  my  sad  estate  — 
But  he  my  lion,  and  my  noble  lord, 
How  does  he  find  in  cruel  heart  to  hate 
Her,  that  him  lov'd,  and  ever  most  ador'd 
As  the  gbd  of  my  life  ?    Why  hath  he  me  abhorr'd  >"™ 

*s "  Yet  she,"  &c.  Coleridge  quotes  this  stanza  as  "  a  good 
instance  of  what  he  means  "  in  the  following  remarks  in  his 
Lectures  : — "  As  characteristic  of  Spenser,  I  would  call  your 
particular  attention  in  the  first  place  to  the  indescribable  sweet- 
ness and  fluent  projections  of  his  verse,  very  clearly  distinguish- 
able from  the  deeper  and  more  inwoven  harmonies  of  Shak- 
speare  and  Milton."  Good,  however,  as  the  stanza  is,  and 
beautiful  the  second  line,  it  does  not  appear  to  me  so  happy  an 
instance  of  what  Coleridge  speaks  of  as  many  which  he  might 
have  selected. 

The  verses  marked  in  the  second  stanza  are  one  of  the  most 
favorite  quotations  from  the  Faerie  Queene. 

*>"As  the  god  of  my  life,"  &c  Pray  let  not  the  reader  consent 
to  read  this  first  half  of  the  line  in  any  manner  less  marked  and 
peremptory.  It  is  a  striking  instance  of  the  beauty  of  that 
"  acceleration  and  retardation  of  true  verse  "  which  Coleridge 
speaks  of.  There  is  to  be  a  hurry  on  the  words  as  the,  and  a 
passionate  emphasis  and  passing  stop  on  the  word  god  ;  and  so 
of  the  next  three  words. 


JUPITER  AND  MAIA. 

Character,  Young  and  Innocent  but  Conscious  and  Sensuous  Beauty , 

Painter,  Correggio. 

Behold  how  goodly  my  fair  love  does  lie 

In  proud  humility  ! 
Like  unto  Mai  a,  when  as  Jove  her  took 
In  Tempe,  lying  on  the  flowery  grass, 
'Twixt  sleep  and  wake,  after  she  weary  was 
With  bathing  in  the  Acidalian  brook. 


SPENSER.  83 


NIGHT  AND  THE  WITCH  DUESSA, 

TAKING    SANSJOY    IN   THEIR    CHARIOT   TO    jESCULAFIUS   TO   BE    RESTORED 

TO   LIFE. 

Character,  Dreariness  of  Scene;    Horridness  of  Aspect  and  Wicked 
Beauty,  side  by  side  ;   Painter,  Julio  Romano. 

Then  to  her  iron  waggon  she  betakes 
And  with  her  bears  the  foul  well-favored  ivitch: 
Through  mirksome  air  her  ready  way  she  makes, 
Her  twofold  team  (of  which  two  black  as  pitch 
And  two  were  brown,  yet  each  to  each  unlich*) 
Did  softly  swim  away,  nor  ever  stamp 
Unless  she  chanc'd  their  stubborn  mouths  to  twitch ; 
Then,  foa?ning  tar,  their  bridles  they  would  champ, 
And  trampling  the  fine  element  would  fiercely  ramp. 

So  well  they  sped,  that  they  be  come  at  length 
Unto  the  place  whereas  the  Paynim  lay 
Devoid  of  outward  sense  and  native  strength, 
Cover'd  with  charmed  cloud  from  view  of  day 
And  sight  of  men,  since  his  late  luckless  fray. 
His  cruel  wounds,  with  cruddy  blood  congeal'd, 
They  binden  up  so  wisely  as  they  may, 
And  handle  softly,  till  they  can  be  heal'd, 
So  lay  him  in  her  chariot,  close  in  night  conceal'd 

And  all  the  while  she  stood  upon  the  ground, 
The  wakeful  dogs  did  never  cease  to  bay ; 
As  giving  warning  of  the  unwonted  sound, 
With  which  her  iron  wheels  did  they  affray, 
And  her  dark  griesly  look  them  much  dismay. 
The  messenger  of  death,  the  ghastly  owl, 
With  dreary  shrieks  did  also  her  bewray , 
And  hungry  wolves  continually  did  howl 
At  her  abhorred  face,  so  filthy  and  so  foul.30 

*  "  Each  to  each  unlich."     Unlike. 


84  SPENSER. 


Then  turning  back  in  silence  soft  they  stole, 
And  brought  the  heavy  corse  with  easy  pace 
To  yawning  gulf  of  deep  Avernus  hole. 
By  that  same  hole,  an  entrance,  dark  and  base, 
With  smoke  and  sulphur  hiding  all  the  place, 
Descends  to  hell :  there  creature  never  pass'd 
That  back  returned  without  heavenly  grace ; 
But  dreadful  furies  which  their  chains  have  brast, 
And  damned  sprites  sent  forth,  to  make  ill  men  aghast. 

By  that  same  way  the  direful  dames  do  drive 
Their  mournful  chariot  JilVd  with  rusty  blood,3i 
And  down  to  Pluto's  house  are  come  belive : 
Which  passing  through,  on  every  side  them  stood 
The  trembling  ghosts  with  sad  amazed  mood, 
Chattering  their  iron  teeth,  and  staring  wide 
With  stony  eyes ;  and  all  the  hellish  brood 
Of  fiends  infernal  flock'd  on  every  side, 
To  gaze  on  earthly  wight,  that  with  the  night  durst  ride. 

3°  "  So  filthy  and  so  foul."— Why  he  should  say  this  of  Night, 
except,  perhaps,  in  connection  with  the  witch,  I  cannot  say.  It 
seems  to  me  to  hurt  the  "  abhorred  face."  Night,  it  is  true,  may 
be  reviled,  or  made  grand  or  lovely,  as  a  poet  pleases.  There 
is  both  classical  and  poetical  warrant  for  all.  But  the  goddess 
with  whom  the  witch  dared  to  ride  (as  the  poet  finely  says  at  the 
close)  should  have  been  exhibited,  it  would  seem,  in  a  more 
awful,  however  frightful  guise. 

31  "Their  mournful  chariot  fill'd  with  rusty  blood."— There  is  some- 
thing wonderfully  dreary,  strange,  and  terrible,  in  this  picture. 
By  "  rusty  blood"  (which  is  very  horrid)  he  must  mean  the 
blood  half  congealing;  altered  in  patches,  like  rusty  iron.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  the  word  "  rusty,"  as  Warton  observes,  "  seems 
to  have  conveyed  the  idea  of  somewhat  very  loathsome  and  hor- 
rible to  our  author." 


SPENSER.  85 


VENUS  IN  SEARCH  OF  CUPID,  COMING  TO  DIANA. 

Character,    Contrast  of  Impassioned    and    Unimpassioned   Beauty — 
Cold  and  Warm  Colors  mixed  ;  Painter,  Titian. 

(Yet  I  know  not  whether  Annibal  Caracci  would  not  better 
suit  the  demand  for  personal  expression  in  this  instance.  But 
the  recollection  of  Titian's  famous  Bath  of  Diana  is  forced 
upon  us.) 

Shortly  unto  the  wasteful  woods  she  came, 
Whereas  she  found  the  goddess  with  her  crew, 
After  late  chace  of  their  embrewed  game, 
Sitting  beside  a  fountain  in  a  rew ; 
Some  of  them  washing  with  the  liquid  dew 
From  off  their  dainty  limbs  the  dusty  sweat 
And  soil,  which  did  defile  their  lovely  hue  ; 
Others  lay  shaded  from  the  scorching  heat ; 
The  rest  upon  her  person  gave  attendance  great. 

She  having  hung  upon  a  bough  on  high 
Her  bow  and  painted  quiver,  had  unlac'd 
Her  silver  buskins  from  her  nimble  thigh, 
And  her  lank  loins  ungirt  and  breasts  unbrac'd, 
After  her  heat  the  breathing  cold  to  taste  ; 
Her  golden  locks,  that  late  in  tresses  bright 
Embraided  were  for  hindering  of  her  haste, 
Now  loose  about  her  shoulders  lay  undight, 
And  were  with  sweet  ambrosia  all  besprinkled  light 

Soon  as  she  Venus  saw  behind  her  back, 

She  was  asham'd  to  be  so  loose  surpris'd, 

And  wak'd  half  wrath  against  her  damsels  slack 

That  had  not  her  thereof  before  aviz'd, 

But  sufFer'd  her  so  carelessly  disguiz'd 

Be  overtaken  :  soon  her  garments  loose  32 
Upgathering  in  her  bosom  she  compriz1  d, 
Well  as  she  might,  and  to  the  goddess  rose 
Whiles  all  her  nymphs  did  like  a  garland  her  inclose 


86  SPENSER. 


"  Soon  her  garments  loose,"  &c— This  picture  is  from  Ovid  , 
but  the  lovely  and  beautifully  colored  comparison  of  the  gar- 
land is  Spenser's  own. 


MAY. 


Character,  Budding  Beauty  in  male  and  female ;  Animal  Passion ; 
Luminous  Vernal  coloring  ;  Painter,  the  same. 

Then  came  fair  May,  the  fairest  maid  on  ground,33 
Deck'd  all  with  dainties  of  her  season's  pride, 
And  throwing  flowers  out  of  her  lap  around  : 
Upon  two  brethren's  shoulders  she  did  ride, 
The  Twins  of  Leda ;  which,  on  either  side, 
Supported  her  like  to  their  sovereign  queen. 
Lord  !  how  all  creatures  laugh' d  when  her  they  spied, 
And  leap'd  and  danc'd  as  they  had  ravished  been  ; 
And  Cupid's  self  about  her  flutte~re~d  all  in  green. 

33 "  Then  came,"  &c — Raphael  would  have  delighted  (but  Titian's 
colors  would  be  required)  in  the  lovely  and  liberal  uniformity  of 
this  picture, — the  young  goddess  May  supported  aloft ;  the  two 
brethren  on  each  side;  animals  and  flowers  below;  birds  in  the 
air,  and  Cupid  streaming  overhead  in  his  green  mantle.  Ima- 
gine the  little  fellow,  with  a  body  of  Titian's  carnation,  tumbling 
in  the  air,  and  playfully  holding  the  mantle,  which  is  flying 
amply  behind,  rather  than  concealing  him. 

This  charming  stanza  beats  the  elegant  but  more  formal  invo- 
cation to  May  by  Milton,  who  evidently  had  it  in  his  recollec- 
tion. Indeed  the  latter  is  almost  a  compilation  from  various 
poets.     It  is,  however,  too  beautiful  to  be  omitted  here. 

Now  the  bright  morning-star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale  primrose. 

Hail  beauteous  May,  that  dost  inspire 
Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire ! 


SPENSER.  87 


Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing, 
Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

Spenser's  "  Lord  !  how  all  creatures  laugh'd  "  is  an  instance 
of  joyous  and  impulsive  expression  not  common  with  English 
poets,  out  of  the  pale  of  comedy.  They  have  geniality  in 
abundance,  but  not  animal  spirits. 


AN  ANGEL,  WITH  A  PILGRIM  AND  A  FAINTING  KNIGHT. 

Character,  Active   Superhuman  Beauty,  with  the  finest  coloring  and 
contrast ;  Painter,  the  same. 

During  the  while  that  Guyon  did  abide 
In  Mammon's  house,  the  palmer,  whom  whilere 
That  wanton  maid  of  passage  had  denied, 
By  further  search  had  passage  found  elsewhe*e; 
And  being  on  his  way,  approached  near 
While  Guyon  lay  in  trance  :  when  suddenly 
He  heard  a  voice  that  called  loud  and  clear, 
"  Come  hither,  hither,  0  come  hastily  !" 
That  all  the  fields  resounded  with  the  rueful  cry 

The  palmer  leant  his  ear  unto  the  noise, 
To  weet  who  call'd  so  importun^dly  ; 
Again  he  heard  a  more  enforced  voice, 
That  bade  him  come  in  haste.     He  by-and-bye 
His  feeble  feet  directed  to  the  cry ; 
Which  to  that  shady  delve  him  brought  at  last, 
Where  Mammon  earst  did  sun  his  treasury : 
There  the  good  Guyon  he  found  slumbering  fast 
In  senseless  dream  ;  which  sight  at  first  him  sore  aghast 

Beside  his  head  there  sat  a  fair  young  man,34 
Of  wondrous  beauty  and  of  freshest  years, 
Whose  tender  bud  to  blossom  new  began, 
And  flourish  far  above  his  equal  peers; 
His  snowy  front,  curled  with  golden  hairs, 


8S  SPENSER. 


Like  Phcebus'  face  adorn'd  with  sunny  rays, 
Divinely  shone  ;  and  two  sharp  winged  shears, 
Decked  with  diverse  plumes,  like  painted  jays, 
Were  fixed  at  his  back  to  cut  his  airy  ways 

34  "Beside  his  head,"  &c— The  superhuman  beauty  of  this  angel 
should  be  Raphael's,  yet  the  picture,  as  a  whole,  demands  Ti- 
tian ;  and  the  painter  of  Bacchus  was  not  incapable  of  the  most 
imaginative  exaltation  of  countenance.  As  to  the  angel's  body, 
no  one  could  have  painted  it  like  him, — nor  the  beautiful  jay's 
wings  ;  not  to  mention  the  contrast  between  the  pilgrim's  weeds 
and  the  knight's  armor.  See  a  picture  of  Venus  blinding  Cupid, 
beautifully  engraved  by  Sir  Robert  Strange,  in  which  the  Cupid 
has  variegated  wings. 


AURORA  AND  TITHONUS. 

Character,  Young  and  Genial  Beauty,  contrasted  with  Age, — the  ac- 
cessories full  of  the  mixed  warmth  and  chillness  of  morning  ;  Pain- 
ter, Guido. 

The  joyous  day  'gan  early  to  appear, 
And  fair  Aurora  from  the  dewy  bed 
Of  aged  Tithon  'gan  herself  to  rear 
With  rosy  cheeks,  for  shame  as  blushing  red. 
Her  golden  locks,  for  haste,  were  loosely  shed 
About  her  ears,  when  Una  did  her  mark 
Climb  to  her  chariot,  all  with  flowers  spread, 
From  heaven  high  to  chase  the  cheerless  dark : 
With  merry  note  her  loud  salutes  the  mounting  lark 


SPENSER.  89 


THE  BRIDE  AT  THE  ALTAR. 

Character,  Flushed  yet  Lady-like  Beauty,  with  ecstatic  Angels  regard- 
ing her  ;  Painter,  the  same. 

Behold,  while  she  before  the  altar  stands, 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speaks, 
And  blesses  her  with  his  two  happy  hands, 
How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheeks ! 
And  the  pure  snow,  with  goodly  vermeil  stain, 

Like  crimson  dyed  in  grain ! 
That  ev'n  the  angels,  which  continually 
About  the  sacred  altar  do  remain, 
Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly, 
Oft  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more  fair  35 
The  more  they  on  it  stare ; 
But  her  sad  eyes,  still  fastened  on  the  ground, 
Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty, 
That  suffers  not  one  look  to  glance  awry, 
Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsound. 

ss  "  Oft  peeping  in  her  face,"  &c. — I  cannot  think  the  words  peep- 
ing and  stare,  the  best  which  the  poet  could  have  used ;  but  he 
is  aggravating  the  beauties  of  his  bride  in  a  long  epithalamium, 
and  sacrificing  everything  to  her  superiority.  The  third  line  is 
felicitous. 


A  NYMPH  BATHING. 

Character,  Ecstacy  of  Conscious  and  Luxurious  Beauty  ;  Paintet 

Guido. 

— Her  fair  locks  which  formerly  were  bound 

Up  in  one  knot,  she  low  adown  did  loose, 

Which  flowing  long  and  thick,  her  cloth' d  around, 

And  the  ivory  in  golden  ma?itle  gown'd, 


90  SPENSER. 


So  that  fair  spectacle  was  from  him  reft, 
Yet  that  which  reft  it,  no  less  fair  was  found : 
So  hid  in  locks  and  waves  from  looker's  theft, 
JVaught  but  her  lovely  face  she  for  his  looking  left. 

Withal  she  laughed,  and  she  blush'd  withal,36 
That  blushing  to  her  laughter  gave  more  grace, 
And  laughter  to  her  blushing. 

36  "  Withal  she  laughed,"  &c. — Perhaps  this  is  the  loveliest  thing 
of  the  kind,  mixing  the  sensual  with  the  graceful,  that  ever  was 
painted.  The  couplet,  So  hid  in  locks  and  waves,  &c,  would  be 
an  excessive  instance  of  the  sweets  of  alliteration,  could  we  bear 
to  miss  a  particle  of  it. 


THE  CAVE  OF  DESPAIR. 

Character,  Savage  and  Forlorn  Scenery,  occupied  by  Squalid  Misery 

Painter,  Salvator  Rosa. 

Ere  long  they  come  where  that  same  wicked  wight 
His  dwelling  has,  low  in  a  hollow  cave. 
Far  underneath  a  craggy  cliff  ypight, 
Dark,  doleful,  dreary,  like  a  greedy  grave, 
That  still  for  carrion  carcasses  doth  crave  ; 
On  top  whereof  ay  dwelt  the  ghastly  owl, 
Shrieking  his  baleful  note,  which  ever  drave 
Far  from  that  haunt  all  other  cheerful  fowl, 
And  all  about  it  wand'ring  ghosts  did  wail  and  howl : 

And  all  about  old  stocks  and  stubs  of  trees, 
Whereon  nor  fruit  nor  leaf  was  ever  seen, 
Did  hang  upon  the  ragged  rocky  knees, 
On  which  had  many  wretches  hanged  been, 
Whose  carcasses  were  scattered  on  the  green, 
And  thrown  about  the  cliffs.     Arrived  there, 
That  bare-head  knight,  for  dread  and  doleful  teen,* 
Would  fain  have  fled,  nor  durst  approachen  near, 
But  th'  other  forc'd  him  stay  and  comforted  in  fear. 

*  Teen — anxiety. 


SPENSER.  91 


Look'd  deadly  dull,  and  stared  as  astoun'd  ; 
His  raw-bone  cheeks,  through  penury  and  pine, 
Were  shrunk  into  his  jaws,  as  he  did  never  dine. 
That  darksome  cave  they  enter  where  they  find 
That  cursed  man  low  sitting  on  the  ground, 
Musing  full  sadly  in  his  sullen  mind  ; 
His  griesly  locks,  long  growen  and  unbound, 
Disordered  hung  about  his  shoulders  round, 
And  hid  his  face  through  which  the  hollow  eyne. 

His  garment  naught  but  many  ragged  clouts, 
With  thorns  together  pinn'd  and  patched  was, 
The  which  his  naked  sides  he  wrapp'd  about ; 
And  him  beside  there  lay  upon  the  grass 
A  dreary  corse,  whose  life  away  did  pass, 
All  wallow'd  in  his  own  yet  lukewarm  blood, 
That  from  his  wound  yet  welled  fresh  alas  ! 
In  which  a  rusty  knife  fast  fixed  stood, 
And  made  an  open  passage  for  the  gushing  flood. 

Still  finer  than  this  description  are  the  morbid  sophistry  and 
the  fascinations  of  terror  that  follow  it  in  the  original ;  but  as 
they  are  less  poetical  or  pictorial  than  argumentative,  the  extract 
is  limited  accordingly.  There  is  a  tradition  that  when  Sir 
Philip  Sidney  read  this  part  of  the  Faerie  Queene,  he  fell  into 
transports  of  admiration. 


A  KNIGHT  IN  BRIGHT  ARMOR  LOOKING  INTO  A  CAVE. 

Character,  A  deep  effect  of  Chiaroscuro,  making  deformity  visible 

Painter,  Rembrandt. 

But  full  of  fire  and  greedy  hardiment, 
The  youthful  knight  would  not  for  aught  be  stay'd, 
But  forth  unto  the  darksome  hole  he  went, 
And  looked  in.     His  glistering  armor  made 
A  little  glooming  light,  much  like  a  shade  ;  37 
By  which  he  saw  the  ugly  monster  plain, 
Half  like  a  serpent  horribly  display'd, 
But  th'  other  half  did  woman's  shape  retain, 
Most  loathsome,  filthy  foul,  and  full  of  vile  disdain 


92  SPENSER. 


37  "  A  little  glooming  light,  much  like  a  shade."— Spenser  is  very 
fond  of  this  eifect,  and  has  repeatedly  painted  it.  I  am  not 
aware  that  anybody  noticed  it  before  him.  It  is  evidently  the 
original  of  the  passage  in  Milton : — 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom. 


Observe  the  pause  at  the  words  looked  in. 


MALBECCO  SEES  HELLENORE  DANCING  WITH  THE  SATYRS 

Character,  Luxurious  Abandonment  to  Mirth  ;  Painter,  Nicholas 

Poussin. 

— Afterwards,  close  creeping  as  he  might, 
He  in  a  bush  did  hide  his  fearful  head  : 
The  jolly  satyrs,  full  of  fresh  delight, 
Came  dancing  forth,  and  with  them  nimbly  led 
Fair  Hellenore,  with  garlands  all  bespread, 
Whom  their  May-lady  they  had  newly  made  : 
She,  proud  of  that  new  honor  which  they  redd,* 
And  of  their  lovely  fellowship  full  glad, 
Danc'd  lively :  and  her  face  did  with  a  laurel  shade. 

The  silly  man  then  in  a  thicket  lay, 
Saw  all  this  goodly  sport,  and  grieved  sore, 
Yet  durst  he  not  against  it  do  or  say, 
But  did  his  heart  with  bitter  thoughts  engore 
To  see  the  unkindness  of  his  Hellenore. 
All  day  they  danced  with  great  lustyhead, 
And  with  their  horned  feet  the  green  grass  wore, 
The  whiles  their  goats  upon  the  browses  fed, 
Till  drooping  Phabus  'gan  to  hide  his  golden  head. 

*  "  That  new  honor  which  they  redd." — Areaded,  awarded. 


SPENSER.  93 


LANDSCAPE, 

WITH  DAMSELS   CONVEYING   A   WOUNDED     SQUIRE    ON   HIS   HORSE. 

Character,  Select  Southern  Elegance,  with  an  intimation  of  Jine  Ar- 
chitecture ;  Painter,  Claude.  {Yet  "mighty"  woods  hardly  belong 
to  him.) 

Into  that  forest  far  they  thence  him  led, 
Where  was  their  dwelling,  in  a  pleasant  glade 
With  mountains  round  about  environed  ; 
And  mighty  woods  which  did  the  valley  shade 
And  like  a  stately  theatre  it  made, 
Spreading  itself  into  a  spacious  plain  ; 
And  in  the  midst  a  little  river  play'd 
Amongst  the  pumy  stones,  which  seem'd  to  plain 
With  gentle  murmur,  that  his  course  they  did  restrain. 

Beside  the  same  a  dainty  place  there  lay, 

Planted  with  myrtle  trees  and  laurels  green, 

In  which  the  birds  sung  many  a  lovely  lay 

Of  God's  high  praise  and  of  their  sweet  love's  teen, 

As  it  an  earthly  paradise  had  been  ; 

In  whose  enclosed  shadows  there  was  pight 

A  fair  pavilion,  scarcely  to  be  seen. 


THE  NYMPHS  AND  GRACES  DANCING  TO  A  SHEPHERD'S 

PIPE;  or, 

APOTHEOSIS  OF  A  POET'S  MISTRESS. 

Character,  Nakedness  without  Impudency :  Multitudinous  and  Innocent 
Delight ;  Exaltation  of  the  principal  Person  from  Circumstances, 
rather  than  her  own  Ideality  ;  Painter,  Albano. 

Unto  this  place  whereas  the  elfin  knight 
Approach'd,  him  seemed  that  the  merry  sound 


94  SPENSER 


Of  a  shrill  pipe  he  playing  heard  on  height, 

And  many  feet  fast  thumping  the  hollow  ground ; 

That  through  the  woods  their  echo  did  rebound ; 

He  higher  drew,  to  weet  what  might  it  be ; 

There  he  a  troop  of  ladies  dancing  found 

Full  merrily,  and  making  gladful  glee, 

And  in  the  midst  a  shepherd  piping  he  did  see. 

He  durst  not  enter  into  the  open  green, 

For  dread  of  them  unwares  to  be  descry'd, 

For  breaking  off  their  dance,  if  he  were  seen  ; 

But  in  the  covert  of  the  wood  did  bide, 

Beheld  of  all,  yet  of  them  unespied  : 

There  he  did  see  (that  pleas'd  much  his  sight 

That  even  he  himself  his  eyes  envied) 

A  hundred  naked  maidens,  lily  white, 

All  ranged  in  a  ring,  and  dancing  in  delight. 

All  they  without  were  ranged  in  a  ring 
And  danced  round,  but  in  the  midst  of  them 
Three  other  ladies  did  both  dance  and  sing, 
The  whilst  the  rest  them  round  about  did  hem, 
And  like  a  garland  did  in  compass  stem  ; 
And  in  the  midst  of  those  same  three  were  placed 
Another  damsel,  as  a  precious  gem 
Amidst  a  ring  most  richly  well  enchaced, 
That  with  her  goodly  presence  all  the  rest  much  gracea. 

Those  were  the  Graces,  daughters  of  delight. 
Handmaids  of  Venus,  which  are  wont  to  haunt 
Upon  this  hill,  and  dance  there  day  and  night ; 
Those  three  to  man  all  gifts  of  grace  do  graunt, 
And  all  that  Venus  in  herself  doth  vaunt 
Is  borrowed  of  them  ;    but  that  fair  one 
That  in  the  midst  was  placed  paravaunt, 
Was  she  to  whom  that  shepherd  pip'd  alone, 

That  made  him  pipe  so  merrily  as  never  none. 

I 

She  was,  to  weet,  that  jolly  shepherd's  lass 
Which  piped  there  unto  that  merry  rout; 
That  jolly  shepherd,  which  there  piped,  was 
Poor  Colin  Clout  (who  knows  not  Colin  Clout  ?) ; 
He  pip'd  apace,  whilst  they  him  danc'd  about. 
Pipe,  jolly  shepherd  !  pipe  thou  noiv  apace 
Unto  thy  love,  that  made  thee  low  to  lout  ; 
Thy  love  is  present  there  with  thee  in  place, 
Thy  love  is  there  advaunst  to  be  another  grace.39 


SPENSER.  95 


38  "  Thy  love  is  there  advanc'd,"  &c. — And  there  she  remains, 
dancing  in  the  midst  of  the  Graces  for  ever,  herself  a  Grace, 
made  one  by  the  ordinance  of  the  poor  but  great  poet  who  here 
addresses  himself  under  his  pastoral  title,  and  justly  prides  him- 
self on  the  power  of  conferring  immortality  on  his  love.  The 
apostrophe  is  as  affecting  as  it  is  elevating,  and  the  whole  scene 
conceived  in  the  highest  possible  spirit  of  mixed  wildness  and 
delicacy. 


A  PLUME  OF  FEATHERS  AND  AN  ALMOND  TREE. 

In  this  instance,  which  is  the  one  he  adduces  in  proof  of  his 
remark  on  the  picturesque,  the  reader  must  agree  with  Cole- 
ridge, that  the  description  (I  mean  of  the  almond  tree),  however 
charming,  is  not  fit  for  a  picture :  it  wants  accessories ;  to  say 
nothing  of  the  reference  to  the  image  illustrated,  and  the  feeling 
of  too  much  minuteness  and  closeness  in  the  very  distance. 
Who  is  to  paint  the  tender  locks  "  every  one,"  and  the  whisper 
of  "  every  little  breath  ?" 

Upon  the  top  of  all  his  lofty  crest 
A  bunch  of  hairs  discolor'd  diversely, 
With  sprinkled  pearl  and  gold  full  richly  dress'd, 
Did  shake  and  seem  to  dance  for  jollity. 
Like  to  an  almond  tree,  ymounted  high, 
On  top  of  green  Selinis  all  alone, 
With  blossoms  brave  bedecked  daintily, 
Whose  tender  locks  do  tremble  every  tne, 
At  every  little  breath  that  under  heaven  is  blown. 

What  an  exquisite  last  line  !  but  the  whole  stanza  is  perfec- 
tion. The  word  jollity  seems  to  show  the  plumpness  of  the 
plume ;  what  the  fop  in  Moliere  calls  its  embonpoint. 

Hola,  porteurs,  hola !  La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la.  Je  pense  que  ces  marauds- 
la  ont  dessein  de  me  briser  a  force  de  heurter  contre  les  murailles  et  lea 
paves. 

1  Porteur.  Dame,  c'est  que  la  porte  est  etroite.  Vous  avez  voulu  aussi 
que  nous  soyons  entres  jusqu'ici. 


96  SPENSER. 


Mascarille.  Je  le  crois  bien.  Voudriez-vous,  faquins,  que  j'exposasse 
l'embonpoint  de  mes  plumes  aux  inclemences  de  la  saison  pluvieuse,  et  que 
j"allasse  imprimer  mes  souliers  en  boue  ? — Les  Precieuses  Ridicules,  sc.  7. 

[Mascarille  (to  the  sedan  chairmen).  Stop,  stop  !  What  the  devil  is  all 
this  ?     Am  I  to  be  beaten  to  pieces  against  the  walls  and  pavement  ? 

Chairman.  Why  you  see  the  passage  is  narrow.  You  told  us  to  bring 
"Vm  right  in. 

Mascarille.  Unquestionably.  Would  you  have  me  expose  the  embon- 
point of  my  feathers  to  the  inclemency  of  the  rainy  season,  and  leave  the 
impression  of  my  pumps  in  the  mud  ?] 


Our  gallery  shall  close  with  a  piece  of 

ENCHANTED  MUSIC. 

Eftsoons  they  heard  a  most  melodious  sound 
Of  all  that  might  delight  a  dainty  ear. 
Such  as,  at  once,  might  not  on  living  ground, 
Save  in  this  paradise  be  heard  elsewhere  : 
Right  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did  it  hear 
To  weet  what  manner  music  that  might  be, 
For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  ear 
Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmony ; 
Birds,  voices,  instruments,  winds,  waters,  all  agree. 

The  joyous  birds,  shrouded  in  cheerful  shade 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempred  sweet: 
Th'  angelical,  soft,  trembling  voices  made 
To  th'  instruments  divine  respondence  meet ; 
The  silver  sounding  instruments  did  meet 
With  the  base  murmur  of  the  water's  fall ; 
The  water's  fall,  with  difference  discreet, 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call ; 
The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all.39 

39  "  The  gentle  warbling  wind,"  &c.  This  exquisite  stanza  is  a 
specimen  of  perfect  modulation,  upon  the  principles  noticed  in 
the  description  of  Archimago 's  Hermitage.  The  reader  may, 
perhaps,  try  it  upon  them.  "  Compare  it,"  says  Upton,  "  with 
Tasso's  Gierusalemme  Liberata,  canto  16,  st.  12."  Readers 
who  understand  Italian  will  gladly  compare  it,  and  see  how  far 
their  countryman  has  surpassed  the  sweet  poet  of  the  south. 


MARLOWE.  97 


MARLOWE, 

BORN,    ACCORDING    TO    MALONE,  ABOUT    1565> DIED,   1593. 


If  ever  there  was  a  born  poet,  Marlowe  was  one.  He  perceived 
thiags  in  their  spiritual  as  well  as  material  relations,  and  im- 
pressed them  with  a  corresponding  felicity.  Rather,  he  struck 
them  as  with  something  sweet  and  glowing  that  rushes  by  ; — 
perfumes  from  a  censer, — glances  of  love  and  beauty.  And  he 
could  accumulate  images  into  as  deliberate  and  lofty  a  grandeur. 
Chapman  said  of  him,  that  he  stood 

Up  to  the  chin  in  the  Pierian  flood. 

Drayton  describes  him  as  if  inspired  by  the  recollection  : — 

Next  Marlowe,  bathed  in  the  Thespian  springs, 
Had  in  him  those  brave  translunary  things, 
That  the  first  poets  had  ;  his  raptures  were 
All  air  and  fire,  which  made  his  verses  clear 
For  that  fine  madness  still  he  did  retain, 
Which  righth/  short  Id  possess  a  poet's  brain. 

But  this  happy  genius  appears  to  have  had  as  unhappy  a  will, 
which  obscured  his  judgment.  It  made  him  condescend  to 
write  fustian  for  the  town,  in  order  to  rule  over  it ;  subjected 
him  to  the  charge  of  impiety,  probably  for  nothing  but  too  scorn- 
fully treating  irreverent  notions  of  the  Deity;  and  brought  him, 
in  the  prime  of  his  life,  to  a  violent  end  in  a  tavern.  His  plays 
abound  in  wilful  and  self-worshipping  speeches,  and  every  one 
of  them  turns  upon  some  kind  of  ascendency  at  the  expense  of 
other  people.  He  was  the  head  of  a  set  of  young  men  from  the 
university,  the  Peeles,  Greens,  and  others,  all  more  or  less  pos- 
sessed of  a  true  poetical  vein,  who,  bringing  scholarship  to  the 

8 


98  MARLOWE. 


theatre,  were  intoxicated  with  the  new  graces  they  threw  on  the 
old  bombast,  carried  to  their  height  the  vices  as  well  as  wit  of 
the  town,  and  were  destined  to  see,  with  indignation  and  aston- 
ishment, their  work  taken  out  of  their  hands,  and  lone  better,  by 
the  uneducated  interloper  from  Stratford-upon-Avon.       • 

Marlowe  enjoys  the  singular  and  (so  far)  unaccountable 
honor  of  being  the  only  English  writer  to  whom  Shakspeare 
seems  to  have  alluded  with  approbation.  In  As  You  Like  It, 
Phoebe  says, 

Dead  Shepherd  !  now  I  know  thy  saw  of  might, — 
"  Who  ever  lov'd  that  lov'd  not  at  first  sight  ?" 

The  "  saw "  is  in  Marlowe's  Hero  and  Leander,  a  poem  not 
comparable  with  his  plays. 

The  ranting  part  of  Marlowe's  reputation  has  been  chiefly 
owing  to  the  tragedy  of  TamburJainc,  a  passage  in  which  is 
laughed  at  in  Henry  the  Fourth,  and  has  become  famous.  Tam- 
burlaine  cries  out  to  the  captive  monarchs  whom  he  has  yoked 
to  his  car, — 

Hollo,  ye  pampered  jades  of  Asia, 

What !  can  ye  draw  but  twenty  miles  a-day, 

And  have  so  proud  a  chariot  at  your  hi 

And  such  a  coachman  as  great  Tamburhune  ? 

Then  follows  a  picture  drawn  with  real  pootry: 

The  horse  that  guide  the  golden  eye  of  heaven, 

And  blow  the  morning  from  their  nostrils  (read  nosterils), 

Making  their  fiery  gait  above  the  clouds, 

Are  not  so  honor'd  in  their  governor, 

As  you,  ye  slaves,  in  mighty  Tamburlaine. 

It  has  .atterly  been  thought,  that  a  genius  like  Marlowe  could 
have  had  no  hand  in  a  play  so  bombastic  as  this  huffing  tragedy. 
But  besides  the  weighty  and  dignified,  though  monotonous  tone 
of  his  versification  in  many  places  (what  Ben  Jonson,  very  ex- 
actly as  well  as  finely,  calls  "  Marlowe's  mighty  line,")  there 
are  passages  in  it  of  force  and  feeling,  of  which  I  doubt  whether 
any  of  his  contemporaries  were  capable  in  so  sustained  a  degree, 
though  Green  and  Peele  had  felicitous  single  lines,  and  occa- 


MARLOWE.  99 


sionally  a  refined  sweetness.  Take,  for  instance,  the  noble 
verses  to  be  found  in  the  description  of  Tamburlaine  himself, 
which  probably  suggested  to  Milton  his  "  Atlantean  shoulders  " 
— "  fit  to  bear  mightiest  monarchies  " — and  to  Beaumont  a  fine 
image,  which  the  reader  will  see  in  his  Melancholy : — 

Of  stature  tall  and  straightly  fashioned 

Like  his  desire  lift  upward  and  divine, 

So  large  of  limbs,  his  joints  so  strongly  knit, 

Such  breadth  of  shoulders  as  might  mainly  bear 

Old  Atlas'  burthen  :— 

Pale  of  complexion,  wrought  in  him  with  passion,  &c. 

By  "  passion  "  we  are  to  understand,  not  anger,  but  deep  emo- 
tions. Peele  or  Green  might  possibly  have  written  the  beauti- 
ful verse  that  closes  these  four  lines : 

Kings  of  Argier,  Moroccus,  and  of  Fesse, 
You  that  have  marched  with  happy  Tamburlaine 
As  far  as  from  the  frozen  place  of  heaven 
Unto  the  watery  morning's  ruddy  bower : — 

but  the  following  is  surely  Marlowe's  own  : — 

As  princely  lions  when  they  rouse  themselves, 
Stretching  their  paws  and  threatening  herds  of  beasts, 
So  in  his  armor  looketh  Tamburlaine. — 

And  in  the  following  is  not  only  a  hint  of  the  scornful  part  of 
his  style,  such  as  commences  the  extract  from  the  Jew  of  Malta, 
but  the  germ  of  those  lofty  and  harmonious  nomenclatures,  which 
have  been  thought  peculiar  to  Milton. 

So  from  the  cast  unto  the  farthest  west 
Shall  Tamburlaine  extend  his  puissant  arm. 
The  gallies  and  those  pilling  brig  and  ines 
That  yearly  sail  to  the  Venetian  gulf 
And  h  wer  in  the  Straits  for  Christian  wreck, 
Shall  lie  at  anchor  in  the  isle  Jlrant, 
Until  the  Persian  fleet  cttid  men  of  wars, 
Sailing  along  the  Oriental  sea, 
Have  fetch' d  about  the  Indian  continent, 
Even  from  Persepolis  to  Mexico, 
And  thence  unto  the  Straits  of  Jub altar. 


100  MARLOWE. 


Milton  never  surpassed  the  elevation  of  that  close.  Who  also 
bul  Marlowe  is  likely  to  have  written  the  fine  passage  extracted 
into  this  volume,  under  the  title  of  "Beauty  beyond  Expression," 
in  which  the  thought  argues  as  much  expression,  as  the  style  a 
confident  dignity  ?  Tamburlaine  was  most  likely  a  joint-stocK 
piece,  got  up  from  the  manager's  chest  by  Marlowe,  Nash,  and 
perhaps  half-a-dozen  others  ;  for  there  are  two  consecutive  plays 
en  the  subject,  and  the  theatres  of  our  own  time  are  not  unac- 
quainted with  this  species  of  manufacture. 

But  I  am  forgetting  the  plan  of  my  book.  Marlowe,  like 
Spenser,  is  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  poet  who  had  no  native  pre- 
cursors. As  Spenser  is  to  be  criticised  with  an  eye  to  his 
poetic  ancestors,  who  had  nothing  like  the  Faerie  Queene,  so  is 
Marlowe  with  reference  to  the  authors  of  Gorboduc.  He  got 
nothing  from  them ;  he  prepared  the  way  for  the  versification, 
the  dignity,  and  the  pathos  of  his  successors,  who  have  nothing 
finer  of  the  kind  to  show  than  the  death  of  Edward  the  Second 
— not  Shakspeare  himself: — and  his  imagination,  like  Spenser's, 
haunted  those  purely  poetic  regions  of  ancient  fabling  and  mod- 
ern rapture,  of  beautiful  forms  and  passionate  expressions,  which 
they  were  the  first  to  render  the  common  pi'operty  of  inspiration, 
and  whence  their  language  drew  "  empyreal  air."  Marlowe 
and  Spenser  are  the  first  of  our  poets  who  perceived  the  beauty 
of  words ;  not  as  apart  from  their  significance,  nor  upon  occa- 
sion only,  as  Chaucer  did  (more  marvellous  in  that  than  them- 
selves, or  than  the  originals  from  whom  he  drew),  but  as  a  habit 
of  the  poetic  mood,  and  as  receiving  and  reflecting  beauty 
through  the  feeling  of  the  ideas. 


THE  JEW  OF  MALTA'S  IDEA  OF  WEALTH. 

So  that  of  thus  much  that  return  was  made, 
And  of  the  third  part  of  the  Persian  ships, 
There  was  the  venture  summ'd  and  satisfied 
As  for  those  Samnites,  and  the  men  of  Uz, 
That  bought  my  Spanish  oils  and  wines  of  Greece,1 
Here  have  I  purs'd  their  paltry  silverlings. 


MARLOWE.  :  01 


Fie  ;  what  a  trouble  'tis  to  count  this  trash! 

Well  fare  the  Arabians,  who  so  richly  pay 

The  things  they  traffic  for  with  wedge  of  gold, 

Whereof  a  man  may  easily  in  a  day 

Tell  that  which  may  maintain  him  all  his  life 

The  needy  groom,  that  never  finger' d  groat, 

Would  make  a  miracle  of  thus  much  coin  ; 

But  he  whose  steel-barr'd  coffers  are  cramm'd  full, 

And  all  his  life-time  had  been  tired  (read  ti-er-ed), 

Wearying  his  fingers'  ends  with  telling  it, 

Would  in  his  age  be  loth  to  labor  so, 

And  for  a  pound  to  sweat  himself  to  death. 

Give  me  the  merchants  of  the  Indian  mines, 

That  trade  in  metal  of  the  purest  mould ; 

The  wealthy  Moor,  that  in  the  eastern  rocks 

Without  control  can  pick  his  riches  up, 

And  in  his  house  heap  pearl  like  pebblestones  ; 

Receive  them  free,  and  sell  them  by  the  weight ; 

Bags  of  fiery  opals,  sapphires,  amethysts, 

Jacinths,  hard  topaz,  grass-green  emeralds, 

Beauteous  rubies,  sparkling  diamonds, 

And  seld-seen  costly  stones  of  so  great  price, 

As  one  of  them  indifferently  rated, 

And  of  a  carat  of  this  quantity, 

•May  serve,  in  peril  of  calamity, 

To  ransom  great  kings  from  captivity  : 

This  is  the  ware  wherein  consists  my  wealth  ; 

And  thus,  methinks,  should  men  of  judgment  frame 

Their  means  of  traffic  from  the  vulgar  trade, 

And  as  their  wealth  increaseth,  so  inclose 

Infinite  riches  in  a  little  room. 

But  now  how  stands  the  wind  ? 

Into  what  corner  peers  my  halcyon's  bill  ?* 

Ha  !  to  the  East  ?  yes ;  see  how  stand  the  vanes  ? 

East  and  by  south.     Why  then,  I  hope  my  ships 

I  sent  for  Egypt  and  the  bordering  isles 

Arc  gotten  up  by  Nilus'  winding  banks ; 

Mine  argosies  from  Alexandria,- 

Loaden  with  spice  and  silks,  now  under  sail, 

Are  smoothly  gliding  down  by  Candy  shore 

To  Malta,  through  our  Mediterranean  Sea. 

i  "  Samnites"  and  "  men  of  Uz,"  and  "  Spanish  oils ."' — That   IS    to 
say,  countrymen  and  contemporaries  of  old   Rome,  of  Arabian 

*  "  My  halcyon's  bill.'' — The  halcyon  is  the  figure  on  the  vane. 


102  MARLOWE. 

Job,  and  the  modern  Spanish  merchants  !  Marlowe,  though  he 
was  a  scholar,  cared  no  more  for  geography  and  consistent  his- 
tory than  Shakspeare.  He  took  the  world  as  he  found  it  at  the 
theatre,  where  it  was  a  mixture  of  golden  age  innocence,  tragi- 
cal enormity,  and  a  knowledge  superior  to  all  petty  and  transi- 
tory facts. 

2  "  Mine  argosies  from  Alexandria,"  &c. — Note  the  wonderful 
sweetness  of  these  four  lines,  particularly  the  last.  The  variety 
of  the  vowels,  the  delicate  alliteration,  and  the  lapse  of  the  two 
concluding  verses,  are  equal,  as  a  study,  to  anything  in  Spenser. 


A  VISION  OF  HELEN. 

She  passes  between  two  Cupids,  having  been  summoned  from  the  next 
world  by  desire  of  Faustus. 

Faust.  Was  this  the  face  that  launch' d  a  thousand  ships, 
And  burnt  the  topmost  towers  of  Ilium  ? 
Sweet  Helen,  make  me  immortal  with  a  kiss. — 
Her  lips  suck  forth  my  soul !  see  where  it  flies. 
Come,  Helen,  come,  give  me  my  soul  again. 
Here  will  I  dwell,  for  heav'n  is  in  these  lips, 
Jlnd  all  is  dross  that  is  not  Helena. 
I  will  be  Paris ;  and  for  love  of  thee, 
Instead  of  Troy,  shall  Wittenberg  be  sack'd ; 
And  I  will  combat  with  weak  Menelaus, 
And  wear  my  colors  on  my  plumed  crest ; 
Yea,  I  will  wound  Achilles  in  the  heel, 
And  then  return  to  Helen  for  a  kiss. 
Oh,  thou  art  fairer  than  the  evening  air, 
Clad  in  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  stars  ; 
Brighter  art  thou  than  flaming  Jupiter,3 
When  he  appear'd  to  hapless  Semele ; 
More  lovely  than  the  monarch  of  the  sea, 
In  wanton  Arethusa's  azure  arms  ; 
And  none  but  thou  shalt  be  my  paramour  ! 

3  "  Brighter  art  thou,"  &c. — Much  cannot  be  said  of  the  five 
lines  here  ensuing  ;  but  their  retention  was  necessary  to  the 
entire  feeling  or  classical  association  of  the  speech,  if  not  to  a 
certain  lingering  modulation. 


MARLOWE.  0-3 


MYTHOLOGY  AND  COURT  AMUSEMENTS. 

Craveston  meditates  how  to  govern  Edward  the  Second 

I  must  have  wanton  poets,  pleasant  wits, 
Musicians,  that  with  touching  of  a  string 
May  draw  the  pliant  king  which  way  I  please. 
Music  and  poetry  are  his  delight: 
Therefore  I'll  have  Italian  masks  by  night ; 
Sweet  speeches,  comedies,  and  pleasing  shows  ; 
And  in  the  day,  when  he  shall  walk  abroad, 
Like  sylvan  nymphs  my  pages  shall  be  clad : 
My  men,  like  satyrs  grazing  on  the  lawns, 
Shall  with  their  goat-feet  dance  the  antic  hay. 
Sometimes  a  lovely  boy  in  Dian's  shape, 
With  hair  that  gilds  the  water  as  it  glides, 
Shall  bathe  him  in  a  spring  ;  and  there,  hard  by, 
One,  like  Actaeon,  peeping  through  the  grove, 
Shall  by  the  angry  goddess  be  transform'd; 
And  running  in  the  likeness  of  a  hart, 
By  yelping  hounds  pull'd  down,  shall  seem  to  die — 
Such  things  as  these  best  please  his  Majesty. 


LEAUTY  BEYOND  EXPRESSION. 

If  all  the  pens  that.  ev<  si  I. rid 

Had  fed  the  feeling  of  their  master's  thoughts, 
And  ev'ry  sweetness  that  inspired  their  hearts, 
And  minds,  and  muses  on  admired  themes; 
If  all  the  heavenly  quintessence  they  still 

>m  their  immortal  flowers  of  poesy, 
Wherein,  as  in  a  mirror,  wc  perceive 
The  reaches  of  a  human  wit ; 

If  these  had  made  one  poem's  period, 
And  all  combin'd  in  beauty's  worthiness 
Yet  should  there  hover  in  their  restless  heads, 
On>  thought,  one  grace,  one  wonder,  at  the  bent, 
Which  into  words  no  virtue  can  digest 


i(M  MARLOWE. 


THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS  LOVE. 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love, 
And  ive  will  all  the  pleasures  prove, 
That  hill  and  valley,  grove  and  field, 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains  yield 
There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals, 
There  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 
With  a  thousand  fragrant  posies ; 
A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle  ; 
A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Slippers  lin'd  ch    <         for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold  ; 
A  belt  of  straw,  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning  ; 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 

This  song  is  introduced,  not  so  much  for  its  poetical  excel- 
lence (though  it  is  quite  what  a  poet  would  write  on  the  occa- 
sion) as  because  it  is  one  of  those  happy  embodiments  of  a 
thought  which  all  the  world  thinks  at  some  time  or  other;  and 
which  therefore  takes  wonderfully  with  them  when  somebody 
utters  it.  The  "  golden  buckles"  and  "  amber  studs"  are  not 
to  be  considered  as  a  contradiction  to  the  rest  of  the  imagery ; 
for  we  are  to  suppose  it  a  gentlewoman  to  whom  the  invitation  is 
addressed,  and  with  whom  her  bridegroom  proposes  to  go  and 
play  at  shepherd  and  shepherdess,  at  once  realizing  the  sweets 
of  lowliness  and  the  advantages  of  wealth.  A  charming  fancy! 
and  realized  too  sometimes;  though  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  could 
not  let  it  alone,  but  must    needs    refute   it  in   some   excellent 


MARLOWE.  105 


verses,  too  good  for  the  occasion.  Sir  Walter,  a  great  but  wil- 
ful man  (in  some  respects  like  Marlowe  himself,  and  a  true  poet 
too — I  wish  he  had  written  more  poetry),  could  pass  and 
ultimately  lose  his  life  in  search  of  El  Dorados, — whole  coun- 
tries made  of  gold, — but  doubted  whether  an  innocent  young 
lady  and  gentleman,  or  so,  should  aim  at  establishing  a  bit  of 
Arcadia. 

There  are  so  many  copies  of  this  once-popular  production,  all 
different  and  none  quite  consistent,  owing,  no  doubt,  to  oral 
repetitions  and  the  license  of  musical  setting  (for  no  copy  of  it 
is  to  be  found  coeval  with  its  production),  that,  after  studious 
comparison  of  several,  I  have  exercised  a  certain  discretion  in 
the  one  here  printed,  and  omitted  also  an  ill-managed  repetition 
of  the  burthen  : — not,  of  course,  with  the  addition  of  a  syllable. 
Such  readers,  therefore,  as  it  may  concern,  are  warned  not  to 
take  the  present  copy  for  granted,  at  the  expense  of  the  others  ; 
but  to  compare  them  all,  and  make  his  choice. 


i06  SHAKSPEARE. 


SHAKSPEARE, 

BORN,  1564 DIED,  1616. 


Shakspeare  is  here  in  his  purely  poetical  creations,  apart  (as 
much  as  it  is  possible  for  such  a  thinker  and  humanist  to  be) 
from  thought  and  humanity.  There  is  nothing  wanting  either  to 
the  imagination  or  fancy  of  Shakspeare.  The  one  is  lofty,  rich, 
affecting,  palpable,  subtle ;  the  other  full  of  grace,  playfulness, 
and  variety.  He  is  equal  to  the  greatest  poets  in  grandeur  of 
imagination  ;  to  all  in  diversity  of  it ;  to  all  in  fancy  ;  to  all  in 
everything  else,  except  in  a  certain  primaeval  intensity,  such  as 
Dante's  and  Chaucer's;  and  in  narrative  poetry,  which  (to 
judge  from  Venus  and  Adonis,  and  the  Rape  of  Lucrece)  he 
certainly  does  not  appear  to  have  had  a  call  to  write.  He  over- 
informed  it  with  reflection.  It  has  been  supposed  that  when 
Milton  spoke  of  Shakspeare  as 

Fancy's  child 
Warbling  his  native  wood-notes  wild, 

the  genealogy  did  him  injustice.  But  the  critical  distinction 
between  Fancy  and  Imagination  was  hardly  determined  till  of 
late.  Collins  himself,  in  his  Ode  on  the  Poetical  Character, 
uses  the  word  Fancy  to  imply  both,  even  when  speaking  of 
Milton  ;  and  so  did  Milton,  I  conceive,  when  speaking  of  Shaks- 
peare. The  propriety  of  the  words,  "native  wood-notes  wild," 
is  not  so  clear.  I  take  them  to  have  been  hastily  said  by  a 
learned  man  of  an  unlearned.  But  Shakspeare,  though  he  had 
not  a  college  education,  was  as  learned  as  any  man,  in  the 
highest  sense  of  the  word,  by  a  scholarly  intuition.  He  had  the 
spirit  of  learning.     He  was  aware  of  the  education  he  wanted. 


SHAKSPEARE.  107 

and  by  some  means  or  other  supplied  it.  He  could  anticipate 
Milton's  own  Greek  and  Latin ; 

Tortive  and  errant  from  his  course  of  growth — 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnardine — 
A  pudency  so  rosy,  &c. 

In  fact,  if  Shakspeare's  poetry  has  any  fault,  it  is  that  of  being 
too  learned  ;  too  over-informed  with  thought  and  allusion.  His 
wood-notes  wild  surpass  Haydn  and  Bach.  His  wild  roses  were 
all  twenty  times  double.  He  thinks  twenty  times  to  another 
man's  once,  and  makes  all  his  serious  characters  talk  as  well  as 
he  could  himself, — with  a  superabundance  of  wit  and  intelli- 
gence. He  knew,  however,  that  fairies  must  have  a  language 
of  their  own ;  and  hence,  perhaps,  his  poetry  never  runs  in  a 
more  purely  poetical  vein  than  when  he  is  speaking  in  their 
persons  ; — I  mean  it  is  less  mixed  up  with  those  heaps  of  com- 
ments and  reflections  which,  however  the  wilful  or  metaphysical 
critic  may  think  them  suitable  on  all  occasions,  or  succeed  in 
persuading  us  not  to  wish  them  absent,  by  reason  of  their  stimu- 
lancy  to  one's  mental  activity,  are  assuredly  neither  always 
proper  to  dramatic,  still  less  to  narrative  poetry;  nor  yet  so 
opposed  to  all  idiosyncrasy  on  the  writer's  part  as  Mr.  Coleridge 
would  have  us  believe.  It  is  pretty  manifest,  on  the  contrary, 
that  the  over-informing  intellect  which  Shakspeare  thus  carried 
into  all  his  writings,  must  have  been  a  personal  as  well  as  lite- 
rary peculiarity  ;  and  as  the  events  he  speaks  of  are  sometimes 
more  interesting  in  their  nature  than  even  a  superabundance  of 
his  comments  can  make  them,  readers  may  be  pardoned  in 
sometimes  wishing  that  he  had  let  them  speak  a  little  more 
briefly  for  themselves.  Most  people  would  prefer  Ariosto's  and 
Chaucer's  narrative  poetry  to  his;  the  Griselda,  for  instance, 
and  the  story  of  Isabel, — to  the  Rape  of  Lucrece.  The  intense 
passion  is  enough.  The  misery  is  enough.  We  do  not  want 
even  the  divinest  talk  about  what  Nature  herself  tends  to  petrify 
into  silence.  Curce  ingenies  stupent.  Our  divine  poet  had  not 
quite  outlived  the  times  when  it  was  thought  proper  for  a  writer 
to  say  everything  that  came  into  his  head.  He  was  a  student 
of  Chaucer:    he  beheld   the  living  fame  of  Spenser ;    and  his 


JOS  SHAKSPEARE. 

fellow-dramatists  did  not  help  to  restrain  him.  The  players  told 
Ben  Jonson  that  Shakspeare  never  blotted  a  line  ;  and  Ben  says 
he  was  thought  invidious  for  observing,  that  he  wished  he  had 
blotted  a  thousand.  He  sometimes,  he  says,  required  stopping. 
{Aliquando  sufflaminandus  erat.)  Was  this  meant  to  apply  to 
his  conversation  as  well  as  writing  ?  Did  he  manifest  a  like 
exuberance  in  company  ?  Perhaps  he  would  have  done  so,  but 
for  modesty  and  self-knowledge.  To  keep  his  eloquence  alto- 
gether within  bounds  was  hardly  possible  ;  and  who  could  have 
wished  it  had  been?  Would  that  he  had  had  a  Boswell  a 
hundred  times  as  voluminous  as  Dr.  Johnson's,  to  take  all  down  ! 
Bacon's  Essays  would  have  seemed  like  a  drop  out  of  his  ocean. 
He  would  have  swallowed  dozens  of  Hobbeses  by  anticipation, 
like. larks  for  his  supper. 

If  Shakspeare,  instead  of  proving  himself  the  greatest  poet  in 
the  world,  had  written  nothing  but  the  fanciful  scenes  in  this 
volume,  he  would  still  have  obtained  a  high  and  singular  repu- 
tation,— that  of  Poet  of  the  Fairies.  For  he  may  be  said  to 
have  invented  the  Fairies  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  was  the  first  that 
turned  them  to  poetical  account ;  that  bore  them  from  clownish 
neighborhoods  to  the  richest  soils  of  fancy  and  imagination. 


WHOLE    STORY    OF    THE    TEMPEST. 

ENCHANTMENT,  MONSTROSITY,  AND  LOVE. 

The  whole  story  of  the  Tempest  is  really  contained  :'m  this 
scene. 

J\fira.  I  pray  you,  sir, 
(For  still  'tis  beating  in  my  mind)  your  reason 
For  raising  this  sea-storm  ? 

Pro.  Know  thus  far  forth  ;— 

By  accident,  most  strange,  bountiful  fortune, 
Now  my  dear  lady,  hath  mine  enemies 
Brought  to  this  shore  :  and  by  my  prescience, 
I  find  my  zenith  doth  depend  upon 


SHAKSPEARE.  109 


A  most  auspicious  star  :  whose  influence, 

If  now  I  court  not,  but  omit,  my  fortunes 

Will  ever  after  droop  : — here  cease  more  questions  ; 

Thou  art  inclin'd  to  sleep  ;  'tis  a  good  duln'iss, 

And  give  it  way  ; — I  know  thou  canst  not  choose. — 

{Miranda  sleeps.') 
Come  away,  servants,  come ;  I  am  ready  pow  ; 
Approach,  my  Ariel ;  come. 

Enter  Ariel 

Ari.  All  hail,  great  master  !  grave  sir-  hail !  I  come 
To  answer  thy  best  pleasure  :  be  't  to  fly, 
To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  curl'd  clouds ;  to  thy  strong  bidding,  task 
Ariel,  and  all  his  quality. 

Pro.  Hast  thou,  spirit, 

Perform'd  to  point  the  tempest  that  I  bachi  thee? 

Ari.  To  every  article. 
I  boarded  the  king's  ship  ;  now  on  the  berk, 
Now  in  the  waist,  the  deck,  in  every  cabin, 
IJlam'd  amazement.     Sometimes,  I'd  div'df, 
And  burn  in  many  places  ;  on  the  top-mast, 
The  yards,  and  bowsprit,  would  I  flame  distinctly, 
Then  meet,  ami  join  :  Jove's  lightnings,  the  precursors 
&  the  dreadful  thunder-claps  more  momentary 
And  sight  out-running  were  not :  the  fire  and  cr-vks 
Of  sulphurous  roaring,  the  most  mighty  Neptune 
Seemed  to  besiege,  and  make  his  bold  waves  trembl-* 
Yea,  his  dread  trident  shake. 

Pro.  c  My  brave  spirit ! 

Who  was  so  firm,  so  constant,  that  this  coil 
Would  not  infect  his  reason  ? 

Ari.  Not  a  soul 

IJut  felt  a  fever  of  the  mind,  and  play'd 
Some  tricks  of  desperation;  all,  but  mariners, 
Plung'd  in  the  foaming  brine,  and  quit  the  vessi  1 
Then  all  a-jire  with  me:  the  king's  sun,  Ferdinand 
Willi  hair  up-staring  (then  like  reeds,  not  hair), 

the  firsl  man  that  leap'd;  cried,  Hell  is  empty, 
And  all  the  devils  are  here. 

Pro.  Why  that 's  my  spirit ! 

But  was  not  this  nigh  shore? 

Ari.  Close  h\ ,  mj  master. 

Pro.  But  are  they,  Ariel,  sale  ? 

Ari.  Not  a  hair  perish'd  ; 

On  their  sustaining  garments  not  a  blemish, 


110  SHAKSPEARE. 


But  fresher  than  before  :  and  as  thou  bad'st  me, 
In  troops  I  have  dispers'd  them  'bout  the  isle  : 
The  king's  son  have  I  landed  by  himself; 
Whom  I  left  cooling  of  the  air  with  sighs, 
In  an  odd  angle  of  the  isle,  and  sitting, — 
His  arms  in  this  sad  knot. 

Pro.  Of  the  king's  ship, 

The  mariners,  say,  how  thou  hast  dispos'd, 
And  all  the  rest  o'  the  fleet  ? 

Ari.  Safely  in  harbor 

Is  the  king's  ship  ;  in  the  nook,  where  once 
Thou  calVdst  me  up  at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 
From  the  still  vexed  Bermoothes  ;  there  she's  hid ; 
The  mariners  all  undec  hatches  stow'd  ; 
Whom,  with  a  charm  join'd  to  their  suffer'd  labor, 
I  have  left  asleep  ;  and  for  the  rest  o'  the  fleet, 
Which  I  dispers'd,  they  all  have  met  again ; 
And  are  upon  the  Mediterranean  flote, 
Bound  sadly  home  for  Naples  ; 
Supposing  that  they  saw  the  king's  ship  wreck'd, 
And  his  great  person  perish. 

Pro.  Ariel,  my  charge 

Exactly  is  perform'd ;  but  there's  more  work : 
What  is  the  time  o'  the  day  ? 

Ari.  Past  the  mid  season. 

Pro.  At  least  two  glasses  :  the  time  'twixt  six  and  now, 
Must  by  us  both  be  spent  most  preciously. 

Ari.  Is  there  more  toil  ?     Since  thou  dost  give  me  pains, 
Let  me  remember  thee  what  thou  hast  promis'd, 
Which  is  not  yet  performed  me. 

Pro.  How  now !  moody  ?    • 

What  is  't  thou  canst  demand  ? 

Ari.  My  liberty. 

Pro.  Before  the  time  be  out  ?  no  more. 

Ari.  I  pray  thee 

Remember,  I  have  done  thee  worthy  service  ; 
Told  thee  no  lies,  made  no  mistakings,  serv'd 
Without  or  grudge  or  grumblings  :  thou  didst  promise 
To  bate  me  a  full  year. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  forget 

From  what  a  torment  I  did  free  thee  ? 

ArL  No. 

Pro.  Thou  dost ;  and  think'st 
It  much  to  tread  the  ooze  of  the  salt  deep , 
To  run  upon  the  sharp  wind  of  the  north  ; 
To  do  me  business  in  the  veins  of  the  earth, 


SHAKSPEARE.  Ill 


When  it  is  bak'd  with  frost. 

Ari.  I  do  not,  sir. 

Pro.  Thou  liest,  malignant  thing !     Hast  thou  forgot 
The  foul  witch  Sycorax,  who,  with  age  and  envy, 
Was  grown  into  a  hoop  ?    Hast  thou  forgot  her  ? 
Ari.  No,  sir. 

Pro.  Thou  hast :  where  was  she  born  ?  speak ;  tell  me. 

Ari.  Sir,  in  Argier. 

Pro.  0,  was  she  so  ?    I  must, 

Once  in  a  month,  recount  what  thou  hast  been, 
Which  thou  forget'st.     This  damn'd  witch,  Sycorax, 
For  mischiefs  manifold,  and  sorceries  terrible 
To  enter  human  hearing,  from  Argier 
Thou  know'st  was  banish'd,  for  one  thing  she  did  ; 
They  would  not  take  her  life  :  Is  not  this  true  ? 
Ari.  Aye,  sir. 

Pro.  This  blue-ey'd  hag  was  hither  brought  with  child, 
And  here  was  left  by  the  sailors  :  Thou,  my  slave, 
As  thou  report'st  thyself,  was  then  her  servant : 
And,  for  thou  wast  a  spirit  too  delicate 
To  act  her  earthy  and  abhorr'd  commands, 
Refusing  her  grand  hests,  she  did  confine  thee 
By  help  of  her  more  potent  ministers, 
And  in  her  most  unmitigable  rage, 
Into  a  cloven  pine :  within  which  rift, 
Imprison'd,  thou  didst  painfully  remain 
A  dozen  years ;  within  which  space  she  died, 
And  left  thee  there ;  where  thou  didst  vent  thy  groans, 
As  fast  as  mill-wheels  strike:  Then  was  this  island 
(Save  for  the  son  which  she  did  litter  here, 
A  freckled  whelp,  hag-born)  not  honor'd  with 
A  human  shape. 

Ari.  Yes ;  Caliban  her  son. 

Pro.  Dull  thing,  I  say  so, — he,  that  Caliban, 
Whom  now  I  keep  in  service.     Thou  best  know'st 
What  torments  I  did  find  thee  in ;  thy  groans 
Did  make  wolves  howl,  and  penetrate  the  breasts 
Of  ever  angry  bears  :  it  was  a  torment 
To  lay  upon  the  damn'd,  which  Sycorax 
Could  not  again  undo  ;  it  was  mine  art, 
When  I  arriv'd,  and  heard  thee,  that  made  gape 
The  pine  and  let  thee  out. 

Ari.  I  thank  thee,  master. 

Pro.  If  thou  more  murmur'st,  I  will  rend  an  oak. 
And  peg  thee  in  his  knotty  entrails,  till 
Thou  hast  howl'd  away  twelve  winters. 


112  SHAKSPEARE. 


Ari.  Pardon,  master : 

I  will  be  correspondent  to  command, 
And  do  my  spiriting  gently. 

Pro.  Do  so ;  and  after  two  days 

I  will  discharge  thee. 

An.  That's  my  noble  master  ! 

What  shall  I  do  ?  say  ?  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Pro.    Go  make  thyself  like  to  a  nymph  o'  the  sea ; 
Be  subject  to  no  sight  but  mine  ;  invisible 
To  every  eyeball  else.     Go,  take  this  shape, 
And  hither  come  in  't :  hence  with  diligence. 

{Exit  Ariel.) 

Awake,  dear  heart,  awake !  thou  hast  slept  well : 
Awake  ! 

Mira.  The  strangeness  of  your  story  put 
Heaviness  in  me. 

Pro.  Shake  it  off;  come  on  ; 

We'll  visit  Caliban,  my  slave,  who  never 
Yields  us  kind  answer. 

Mira.  'Tis  a  villain,  sir, 

I  do  not  love  to  look  on. 

Pro.  But  as  'tis, 

We  cannot  miss  him  ;  he  does  make  our  fire, 
Fetch  in  our  wood,  and  serves  in  offices 
That  profit  us.     What  ho  !  slave  !  Caliban  ! 
Thou  earth  thou  !  speak. 

Calx,  {within.) — There's  wood  enough  within. 

Pro.  Come  forth,  I  say  :  there's  other  business  for  tnee. 
Come  forth,  thou  tortoise  !  when  ? 

Re-enter  Ariel,  like  a  water-nymph. 

Fine  apparition  !  my  quaint  Ariel ! 
Hark  in  thine  ear. 

Ari.  My  lord,  it  shall  be  done. 

(T2xif\ 

Pro.  Thou  poisonous  slave,  got  by  the  devil  himself 
Upon  thy  wicked  dam,  come  forth  ! 

Enter  Caliban. 

Cali.     As  wicked  dew  as  e'er  my  mother  brush,d 
With  raven's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen 
Drop  on  you  both  !  a  south-west  blow  on  ye, 
And  blister  you  all  o'er  ! 

Pro.  For  this,  be  sure,  to-night  thou  shalt  have  cramps, 
•iide-stitches  that  shall  pen  thy  breath  up  ;  urchins 


SHAKSPEARE.  11 J 


Shall,  for  that  vast  of  night  that  they  may  work, 
All  exercise  on  thee  :  thou  shalt  be  pinch'd 
As  thick  as  honey-combs,  each  pinch  more  stinging 
Than  bees  that  made  them. 

Call.  I  must  eat  my  dinner  ! 

This  island's  mine,  by  Sycorax,  my  mother, 
Which  thou  tak'st  from  me.     When  thou  earnest  first, 
Thou  strok'dst  me,  and  mad'st  much  of  me  ;  would'st  give  me 
Water  with  berries  in't;  and  teach  me  how 
To  name  the  bigger  light,  and  how  the  less 
That  burn  by  day  and  night :  and  then  I  lov'd  thee, 
And  show'd  thee  all  the  qualities  o'  the  isle. 
The  fresh  springs,  brine  pits,  barren  place,  and  fertile; 
Cursed  be  I  that  did  so !     All  the  charms 
Of  Sycorax,  toads,  beetles,  bats,  light  on  you  ! 
For  I  am  all  the  subjects  that  you  have, 
Which  first  was  mine  own  king;  and  here  you  sty  me 
In  this  hard  rock,  whiles  you  do  keep  from  me 
The  rest  of  the  island. 

Pro.  Thou  most  lying  slave, 

Who  .  not  kindness, — I  have  us'd  thee, 

Filth  as  thou  art,  with  human  care;  and  lodg'd  thee 
In  mine  own  cell,  till  thou  didst  seek  to  violate 
The  honor  of  my  child. 

Call.   O  ho,  O  ho  !  would  it  had  been  done  ! 
Thou  didst  prevent  me  ;  I  had  peopled  else 
This  isle  with  Calibans. 

Pro.  Abhorred  slave ; 

Which  any  print  of  goodness  will  not  take, 
Being  capable  of  all  ill !     I  pitied  thee, 
Took  pains  to  make  thee  speak,  taught  thee  each  hour 
One  thing  or  other;  when  thou  didst  not,  savage, 
Know  thine  own  meaning,  but  wouldst  gabble,  like 
A  thing  most  brutish,  I  endow'd  thy  purposes 
With  words  that  made  them  known  :  but  thy  vile  race, 
Though  thou  didst  learn,  had  that  in't  which  good  natures 
Could  not  abide  to  be  with;  therefore  wast  thou 
!  I  isi  rvedlj  confin'd  into  this  rock, 
Who  hadst  deserv'd  more  than  a  prison. 

Call.   \  oh  taught  me  Language;  and  my  profit  on't 
Is,  I  know  how  to  curse:  the  red  plague  rid  you, 
For  Learning  me  your  Language  ! 

Pro.  Hag-seed,  hence  ' 

Fetch  us  in  fuel  ;  and  be  quick,  thou  wert  best, 
To  answer  other  business.     Shrug'st  thou,  malice? 
If  thou  neglect'st,  or  dost  unwillingly 
9 


114  SHAKSPEARE. 

What  I  command,  I'll  rack  thee  with  old  cramps, 
Fill  all  thy  bones  with  aches ;  make  thee  roar, 
That  beasts  shall  tremble  at  thy  din. 

Call.  No,  'pray  thee  ! 

I  must  obey :  his  art  is  of  such  power,     {Aside.) 
It  would  control  my  dam's  god,  Setebos, 
And  make  a  vassal  of  him. 

Pro.  So,  slave ;  hence ! 

[Exit  Caliban. 

Re-enter  Ariel,  invisible,  playing  and  singing  ;  Ferdinand 

following  him. 

Ariel's    Song. 
Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands ; 
Courtsied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd 

(The  wild  waves  whist) 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there ; 
And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear. 

Hark,  hark ! 
Burthen.  Bowgh,  wowgh.  {dispersed! y) 

The  watch-dogs  bark : 
Bur.  Bowgh,  wowgh. 
Hark,  hark  !  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticlere 
Cry,  Cock-a-doodle-doo. 
Fer.  Where  should  this  music  be  ?  i'  the  air,  or  the  earth  ? 
It  sounds  no  more  ; — and  sure  it  waits  upon 
Some  god  of  the  island.     Sitting  on  a  bank, 
Weeping  again  the  king  my  father's  wreck, 
This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters  ; 
Allaying  both  their  fury,  and  my  passion, 
With  its  sweet  air ;  thence  I  have  follow'd  it, 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me  rather. — But  'tis  gone : — 
No.  it  begins  again. 

Ariel  sings. 
Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies  ; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made  ; 
Tliose  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes; 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  some  rich  thing  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell ; 
Hark  !  now  I  hear  them, — ding,  dong,  bell. 
(Burthen,  Ding-dong.) 


SHAKSPEAKE.  lift 


Fer.  The  ditty  does  remember  my  drowned  father, 
This  is  no  mortal  business,  nor  no  sound 
That  the  earth  owes  ;— I  hear  it  now  above  me. 

Pro.  The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance,1 
And  say,  what  thou  seest  yond  ! 

Mira.  What  is  't  ?  a  spirit  ? 

Lord,  how  it  looks  about !     Believe,  me,  sir, 
It  carries  a  brave  form  : — but  'tis  a  spirit. 

Pro.  No,  wench  ;  it  eats  and  sleeps,  and  hath  such  senses 
As  we  have, — such.     This  gallant  which  thou  seest, 
Was  in  the  wreck  ;  and  but  he's  something  stain'd 
With  grief,  that's  beauty's  canker,  thou  might'st  call  him 
A  goodly  person  :  he  hath  lost  his  fellows, 
And  strays  about  to  find  them. 

Mira.  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Pro.  It  goes  on  (aside), 

As  my  soul  prompts  it : — Spirit,  fine  spirit !    I'll  free  thee 
Within  two  days  for  this. 

Fer.  Most  sure,  the  goddess 

On  whom  these  airs  attend  ! — Vouchsafe,  my  prayer 
May  know  if  you  remain  upon  this  island ; 
And  that  you  will  some  good  instructions  give, 
How  I  may  bear  me  here.     My  prime  request, 
Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  O  you  wonder  ! 
If  you  be  maid  or  no  ? 

Mira.  No  wonder,  sir  ; 

But,  certainly  a  maid. 

Fer  My  language  !  heavens ! 

I  am  the  best  of  them  that  speak  this  speech, 
Were  I  but  where  'tis  spoken. 

Pro.  How  !  the  best  ? 

What  wert  thou,  if  the  King  of  Naples  heard  thee  ? 

Fer.  A  simple  thing,  as  I  am  now,  that  wonders 
To  hear  thee  speak  of  Naples  ;  he  does  hear  me ; 
And,  that  he  does,  I  weep  ;  myself  am  Naples  ;- 
Who  with  mine  eyes,  ne'er  since  at  ebb,  beheld 
The  king  my  father  wreck'd. 

Mira.  Alack  for  mercy  ! 

Fer.  Yes,  faith,  and  all  his  lords  ;  the  Duke  of  Milan, 
And  his  brave  son,  being  twain. 

Pro.  (aside.)  The  Duke  of  Milan, 

And  his  more  braver  daughter,  could  control  thee, 
If  now  'twere  fit  to  do  't. — At  the  first  sight 
They  have  changed  eyes  ! — Delicate  Ariel  (aside), 
I'll  set  thee  free  for  this  ! 


11G  SHAKSPEARE. 


1  The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance. 

Why  Shakspeare  should  have  condescended  to  the  elaborate 
nothingness,  not  to  say  nonsense  of  this  metaphor  (for  what  is 
meant  by  advancing  "curtains?")  I  cannot  conceive;  that  is 
to  say,  if  he  did  condescend ;  for  it  looks  very  like  the  interpo- 
lation of  some  pompous,  declamatory  player.  Pope  has  put  it 
into  his  treatise  on  the  Bathos. 

2  "  Myself  am  Naples." — This  is  a  very  summary  and  kingly 
style.  Shakspeare  is  fond  of  it.  "  How,  now,  France?"  says 
King  John  to  King  Philip,  "  I'm  dying,  Egypt !"  says  Antony  to 
Cleopatra. 


MACBETH  AND  THE  WITCHES. 

This  scene   fortunately  comprises  a  summary  of  the  whole 
subsequent  history  of  Macbeth. 

A  dark  Cave.     In  the  middle,  a  Caldron  boiling.     Thunder. 
Enter  three  Witches. 

1st  Wi.  Thrice  the  brinded  cat  hath  mew'd, 
2nd  Wi.  Thrice  and  once  the  hedge-pig  whin'd, 
3rd  Wi.  Harper  cries  : — 'Tis  time,  'tis  time. 
1st  Wi.     Round  about  the  caldron  go  ; 

In  the  poison'd  entrails  throw. 

Toad,  that  under  cold  stone 

Days  and  nights  has,  thirty-one, 

Swelter  d  venom  sleeping  got, 

Boil  thou  first  i'  the  charmed  pot ! 
All        Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble  ; 

Fire,  burn;  and,  caldron,  bubble. 
2nd  Wi.  Fillet  of  a  fenny  snake, 

In  the  caldron  boil  and  bake  : 

Eye  of  newt,  and  toe  of  fro?, 

Wool  of  bat,  and  tongue  of  dog, 

Adder's  fork,  and  blind-worm's  sting, 

Lizard's  leg,  and  owlet's  wing, 

For  a  charm  of  powerful  trouble ; 

Like  a  hell-broth,  boil  and  bubble. 


SHAKSPEARE.  117 


All.       Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble  ; 

Fire,  burn  ;  and,  caldron,  bubble. 
3rd  Wi.   Scale  of  dragon,  tooth  of  wolf; 

Witches'  mummy  ;  maw,  and  gulf, 

Of  the  ravin' d  salt-sea  shark  ; 

Root  of  hemlock,  digg'd  i'  the  dark  : 

Liver  of  blaspheming  Jew  ; 

Gall  of  goat,  and  slips  of  yew, 

Sliver 'd  in  the  moon's  eclipse  ; 

Nose  of  Turk,  and  Tartar's  lips  ; 

Finger  of  birth-strangled  babe, 

Ditch-deliver 'd  by  a  drab  ; 

Make  the  gruel  thick  and  slab  ; 

Add  thereto  a  tiger's  chaudron, 

For  the  ingredients  of  our  caldron. 
All.       Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble, 

Fire,  burn  ;  and,  caldron,  bubble. 
2nd  Wi.  Cool  it  with  a  baboon's  blood. 

Enter  Hecate  and  the  three  other  Witches 
Hec.  O,  well  done  !  I  commend  your  pains  ; 
And  every  one  shall  share  i'  the  gains, 
And  now  about  the  caldron  sing, 
Like  elves  and  fairies  in  a  ring, 
Enchanting  all  that  you  put  in. 

(Music  and  a  Song,  Black  Spirits,  &c.) 

2nd  Wi.  By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs, 

Something  tricked  this  ivay  comes: — 
Open,  locks,  whoever  knocks. 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Mac.  How  now,  you  secret,  black,  and  midnight  hags, 
What  is't  you  do? 

All.  A  deed  without  a  name. 

Mac.  I  conjure  you,  by  that  which  you  profess 
(Howe'er  you  come  to  know  it),  answer  me : 
Though  you  untie  the  winds,  and  let  them  fight 
Against  the  churches :  though  the  yesty  waves 
Confound  and  swallow  navigation  up  ; 
Though  Haded  corn  be  lodg'd,  and  trees  blown  down ; 
Though  castles  topple  on  their  warders'  heads; 
Though  palaces  and  pyramids  do  slope 
Their  heads  to  their  foundations ;  though  the  treasure 
Of  nature's  germins  tumble  all  together, 
Even  till  destruction  sicken,  answer  me 
To  what  I  ask  you. 


215  SHAKSPEARE. 


1st  Wi.  Speak. 

2nd  Wi.  Demand. 

3rd  Wi.  We'll  answer. 

1st  Wi.  Say,  if  thou'dst  rather  hear  it  from  our  mouths, 
Or  from  our  masters'  ? 

Mac.  Call  them,  let  me  see  them. 

1st  Wi.  Pour  in  sow's  blood,  that  hath  eaten 
Her  nine  farrow  ;  grease,  that's  sweaten 
From  the  murderer's  gibbet,  throw 
Into  the  flame. 

All.  Come,  high  or  low ; 

Thyself,  and  office,  deftly  show. 

Thunder.     An  Apparition  of  an  armed  Head  rises. 

Mac.  Tell  me,  thou  unknown  power, — 

1st  Wi.  He  knows  thy  thought ; 

Hear  his  speech,  but  say  thou  naught. 

App.  Macbeth  !  Macbeth  !  Macbeth  !  beware  Macduff; 
Beware  the  Thane  of  Fife. — Dismiss  me  ; — Enough. 

(Descends.) 

Mac.  Whate'er  thou  art,  for  thy  good  caution  thanks ; 
Thou  hast  harp'd  my  fear  aright : — But  one  word  more  ; — 

1st  Wi.  He  will  not  be  commanded.     Here's  another, 
More  potent  than  the  first. 

Thunder.     An  Apparition  of  a  bloody  Child  rises.3 

App.  Macbeth  !  Macbeth  !  Macbeth  ! — 

Mac.  Had  I  three  ears,  Pd  hear  thee 

App.  Be  bloody,  bold,  and  resolute  ;  laugh  to  scorn 
The  power  of  man,  for  none  of  woman  born 
Shall  harm  Macbeth. 

Mac.  Then  live,  Macduff:  what  need  I  fear  of  thee  ? 
But  yet  I'll  make  assurance  doubly  sure, 
And  take  a  bond  of  fate  :  thou  shalt  not  live  ; 
That  I  may  tell  pale-hearted  fear  it  lies, 
And  sleep  in  spite  of  thunder. — What  is  this  ? 

Thunder.     An  Apparition  of  a  Child  crowned,  with  a  tree  in  his  hand, 

rises. 

That  rises  like  the  issue  of  a  king ; 

And  wears  upon  his  baby-brow  the  round 

And  top  of  sovereignty  ! 

All.  Listen,  but  speak  not  to  't. 

App.  Be  lion-mettled,  proud ;  and  take  no  care 
Who  chafes,  who  frets,  or  where  conspirers  are ; 
Macbeth  shall  never  vanquish'd  be,  until 


SHAKSPEARE.  U9 


Great  Birnam  wood  to  high  Dunsinane  hill 
Shall  come  against  him. 

(Descends.) 

Mac.  That  will  never  be ; 

Who  can  impress  the  forest ;  bid  the  tree 
Unfix  his  earth-bound  root  ?  sweet  bodements  !  good  ! 
Rebellious  head,  rise  never,  till  the  wood 
Of  Birnam  rise,  and  our  high-plac'd  Macbeth 
Shall  live  the  lease  of  nature,  pay  his  breath 
To  time,  and  mortal  custom. — Yet  my  heart 
Throbs  to  know  one  thing ;  Tell  me  (if  your  art 
Can  tell  so  much)  shall  Banquo's  issue  ever 
Reign  in  the  kingdom  ? 

Ml.  Seek  to  know  no  more. 

Mac.  I  will  be  satisfied ;  deny  me  this 
And  an  eternal  curse  fall  on  you  !     Let  me  know : — 
Why  sinks  that  caldron  ?  and  what  noise  is  this  ? 

(Hautboys.) 

1st  Wi.  Show! 

2nd  Wi.  Show! 

3rd  Wi.  Show! 

Ml.  Show  his  eyes  and  grieve  his  heart, 
Come  like  shadows,  so  depart. 

Eight  Kings  appear,  and  pass  over  the  stage  in  order  ;  the  last  with  a 
glass  in  his  hand  ;  Banquo  following. 

Mac.  Thou  art  too  like  the  spirit  of  Banquo ;  down  ! 
Thy  crown  does  sear  mine  eyeballs : — And  thy  hair, 
Thou  other  gold-bound  brow  is  like  the  first ; — 
A  third  is  like  the  former ; — Filthy  hags  ! 
Why  do  you  show  me  this  ?  a  fourth  ?     Start,  eyes ! 
What !  will  the  line  stretch  out  to  the  crack  of  doom  > 
Another  yet  ? — A  seventh  ? — I'll  see  no  more : 
And  yet  the  eighth  appears,  who  bears  a  glass 
Which  shows  me  many  more  ;  and  some  I  see, 
That  two-fold  balls  and  treble  sceptres  carry : 
Horrible  sight ! — Now,  I  see,  'tis  true ; 
For  the  blood-bolter  d  Banquo  smiles  upon  me, 
And  points  at  them  for  his. — What,  is  this  so  ? 
\sl  Wi.  Aye,  sir,  all  this  is  so: — But  why 

Stands  Macbeth  thus  amazedly  ? 

Come,  sisters,  cheer  we  up  his  sprites, 

And  show  the  best  of  our  delights  : 

I'll  charm  the  air  to  give  a  sound, 

While  you  perform  your  antique  round ; 


120  SHAKSPEARE. 

That  this  great  king  may  kindly  say, 
Our  duties  did  his  welcome  pay. 

(Music.     The  Witches  dance,  and  va?iish.) 

Mac.  Where  are  they  ?     Gone  ? — Let  this  pernicious  hour, 
Stand  aye  accursed  in  the  calendar  ! — 
Come  in,  without  there  ! 

Enter  Lenox. 

Len.  What's  your  grace's  will  ? 

Mac.  Saw  you  the  weird  sisters  ? 

Len.  No,  indeed,  my  lord. 

Mac.  Infected  be  the  air  whereon  they  ride  ; 
And  damn'd  all  those  that  trust  them  ! — I  did  hear 
The  galloping  of  horse  ;  who  was 't  came  by  ? 

Len.  'Tis  two  or  three,  my  lord,  that  bring  you  word, 
Macduff  is  fled  to  England. 

Mac.  Fled  to  England  ? 

Len.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Mac.  Time,  thou  anticipat'st  my  dread  exploits : 
The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook, 
Unless  the  deed  go  with  it :  From  this  moment, 
The  very  firstlings  of  my  heart  shall  be 
The  firstlings  of  my  hand.     And  even  now 
To  crown  my  thoughts  with  acts,  be  it  thought  and  done  : 
This  castle  of  Ma-duff  I  will  surprise; 
Seize  upon  Fife  ;  give  to  the  edge  o'  the  sword 
His  wife,  his  babes,  and  all  unfortunate  souls 
That  trace  him  in  his  line.     No  boasting  like  a  fool ; 
This  deed  I'll  do  before  this  purpose  cool; 
But  no  more  sights  .'4 — Where  are  these  gentlemen  ? 
Come,  bring  me  where  they  are. 

(Exeunt.) 

3  "  Apparition  of  a  bloody  child." — The  idea  of  a  "  bloody  child" 
and  of  his  being  more  potent  than  the  armed  head,  and  one  cf 
the  masters  of  the  witches,  is  very  dreadful.  So  is  that  of  the 
child  crowned,  with  a  tree  in  his  hand.  They  impersonate,  it  is 
true,  certain  results  of  the  war,  the  destruction  of  Macduff's 
children,  and  the  succession  of  Banquo's;  but  the  imagination 
does  not  make  these  reflections  at  first ;  and  the  dreadfulness 
still  remains,  of  potent  demons  speaking  in  the  shapes  of 
children. 


SHAKSPEARE.  121 


«  "  But  no  more  sights." — What  a  world  of  horrors  is  in  this  little 
familiar  phrase  ! 


THE  QUARREL  OF  OBERON  AND  TITANIA. 
A   Fairy    Drama. 

I  have  ventured  to  give  the  extract  this  title,  because  it  not 
only  contains  the  whole  story  of  the  fairy  part  of  the  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream,  but  by  the  omission  of  a  few  lines,  and  the 
transposition  of  one  small  passage  (for  which  I  beg  the  reader's 
indulgence),  it  actually  forms  a  separate  little  play.  It  is  nearly 
such  in  the  greater  play ;  and  its  isolation  was  easily,  and  not 
at  all  injuriously  effected,  by  the  separation  of  the  Weaver  from 
his  brother  mechanicals. 

Enter  Oberon  at  one  door  with  his  train  ;  and  Titania  at  another 

with  hers. 

Ober.  Ill  met  by  moonlight,  proud  Titania. 

Tit.  What !  jealous  Oberon  ?  Fairies,  skip  hence : 
I  have  forsworn  his  bed  and  company. 

Ober.  Tarry,  rash  wanton  ;  am  not  I  thy  lord  ? 

Tit.  Then  I  must  be  thy  lady ;  but  I  know 
When  thou  haststol'n  away  from  fairy-land, 
And  in  the  shape  of  Corin  sat  all  day 
Playing  on  pipes  of  corn,  and  versing  love 
To  amorous  Phillida.     Why  art  thou  here. 
Come  from  the  furthest  steep  of  India,5 
But  that,  forsooth,  the  bouncing  Amazon, 
Your  buskin'd  mistress,  and  your  warrior  love, 
To  Theseus  must  be  wedded  ;  and  you  come 
To  give  their  bed  joy  and  prosperity  ? 

Ober.  How  canst  thou  thus,  for  shame,  Titania, 
Glance  at  my  credit  with  Hippolyta, 
Knowing  I  know  thy  love  to  Theseus  ? 
Didst  thou  not  lead  him  through  the  glimmering  night 
From  Perigenia,  whom  he  ravished  ? 
And  make  him  with  fair  ^Egle  break  his  faith, 


122  SHAKSPEARE. 


With  Ariadne,  and  Antiope  ? 

Tit.  These  are  the  forgeries  of  jealousy : 
And  never  since  the  middle  summer's  spring, 
Met  we  on  hill,  in  dale,  forest,  or  mead, 
By  paved  fountain,  or  by  rushing  brook, 
Or  on  the  beached  margent  of  the  sea, 
To  dance  our  ringlets  to  the  whistling  wind, 
But  in  thy  brawls  thou  hast  disturbed  our  sport 
Therefore  the  winds,  piping  to  us  in  vain, 
As  in  revenge,  have  suck'd  up  from  the  sea 
Contagious  fogs ;  which  falling  on  the  land, 
Have  every  pelting  river  made  so  proud, 
That  they  have  overborne  their  continents; 
The  ox  hath  therefore  stretch'd  his  yoke  in  vain, 
The  ploughman  lost  his  sweat,  and  the  green  corn 
Hath  rotted,  ere  his  youth  attain' d  a  beard: 
The  fold  stands  empty  in  the  drowned  field, 
And  crows  are  fatted  with  the  murrain  flock  ; 
The  nine  men's  morris*  is  fill'd  up  with  mud  ; 
And  the  quaint  mazes  in  the  wanton  green, 
For  lack  of  tread,  are  undistinguishable  ; 
The  human  mortals  want  their  winter  here  ; 
No  night  is  now  with  hymn  or  carol  blest : 
Therefore  the  moon,  the  governess  of  floods, 
Pale  in  her  anger,  washes  all  the  air, 
That  rheumatic  diseases  do  abound  : 
And  thorough  thisdistemperature,  we  see 
The  seasons  alter  :  hoary-headed  frosts 
Fall  in  the  fresh  lap  of  the  crimson  rose  ; 
And  on  old  Hyems'  chin,  and  icy  crown, 
An  odorous  chaplet  of  sweet  summer  buds 
Is,  as  in  mockery,  set.     The  spring,  the  summer, 
The  chilling  autumn,  angry  winter,  change 
Their  wonted  liveries  ;  and  the  mazed  world, 
By  their  increase,  now  knows  not  which  is  which  : 
And  this  same  progeny  of  evils  comes 
From  our  debate,  from  our  dissension : 
We  are  their  parents  and  original. 

Ober.  Do  you  amend  it  then  :  it  lies  in  you  : 
Why  should  Titian  cross  her  Oberon  ? 
I  do  but  beg  a  little  changeling  boy, 
To  be  my  henchman, f 

*  Mine  men's  morris. — A  rustic  game,  played  with  stones  upon  lines  cut 
in  the  ground. 
\  Henchman — Page. 


SHAKSPEARE.  123 


Tit.  Set  your  heart  at  rest ; 

The  fairy  land  buys  not  the  child  of  me. 
His  mother  was  a  vot'ress  of  my  order  ; 
And,  in  the  spiced  Indian  air,  by  night, 
Full  often  hath  she  gossip'd  by  my  side  ; 
And  sat  with  me  on  Neptune's  yellow  sands, 
Marking  the  embarking  traders  on  the  flood ; 
When  we  have  laughed  to  see  the  sails  conceive 
And  grow  big-bellied  with  the  wanton  wind  : 
Which  she  with  pretty  and  with  swimming  gait 
(Following  her  womb,  then  rich  with  my  young  squire) 
Would  imitate ;  and  sail  upon  the  land, 
To  fetch  me  trifles  and  return  again, 
As  from  a  voyage,  rich  with  merchandize. 
But  she,  being  mortal,  of  that  boy  did  die ; 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  do  rear  up  her  boy  : 
And,  for  her  sake,  I  will  not  part  with  him. 

Ober.  How  long  within  this  wood  intend  you  stay  ? 

Tit.  Perchance  till  after  Theseus'  wedding-day. 
If  you  will  patiently  dance  in  our  round, 
And  see  our  moonlight  revels,  go  with  us  ; 
If  not,  shun  me,  and  I  will  spare  your  haunts. 

Ober.  Give  me  that  boy,  and  I  will  go  with  thee. 

Tit.  Not  for  thy  fairy  kingdom. — Fairies,  away  : 
We  shall  chide  down-right,  if  I  longer  stay. 

[Exeunt  Titania  and  her  train. 

Ober.  Well,  go  thy  way  :  thou  shalt  not  from  this  grove, 
Till  I  torment  thee  for  this  injury. — 
My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither.     Thou  remember'st 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 
And  heard  a  mermaid  on  a  dolphin's  back, 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath, 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song  ; 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres, 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

Puck.  I  remember, 

Ober.   That  very  night  I  saw  (but  thou  couldst  not), 
Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Cupid  all  arm'd:  a  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  fair  vestal,  throned  by  the  west;* 
And  loos'd  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow, 

*  At  a  fair  vestal,  throned  by  the  west. — An  allusion  to  Queen  Eliza- 
beth. See  in  the  Rev.  Mr.  Halpin's  remarks  on  this  passage,  published  by 
the  Shakspeare  Society,  a  most  ingenious  speculation  on  the  hidden  mean- 
ing of  it,  as  a  bit  of  secret  court  history. 


£24  SHAKSPEARE. 


As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts  : 

But  I  might  seen  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 

Quench'd  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  ivafry  moon  : 

And  the  imperial  votaress  pass' d  on, 

In  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free. 

Vet  mark'd  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell ; 

It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower, — 

Before  milk-white  ;  now  purple  with  love's  wound, 

And  maidens  call  it  Love-in-idleness.* 

Fetch  me  that  flower :  the  herb  I  showed  thee  once  : 

The  juice  of  it  on  sleeping  eyelids  laid, 

Will  make  or  man  or  woman  madly  dote 

Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  it  sees. 

Fetch  me  this  herb  :  and  be  thou  here  again, 

Ere  the  leviathan  can  swim  a  league. 

Puck.  F 11  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth, 
In  forty  minutes. 

[Exit  Puck. 

Ober.  Having  once  this  juice, 

Pll  watch  Titania  when  she  is  asleep, 
And  drop  the  liquor  of  it  in  her  eyes: 
The  next  thing  then  she  waking  looks  upon 
(Be  it  on  lion,  bear,  or  wolf,  or  bull, 
Or  meddling  monkey,  or  on  busy  ape), 
She  shall  pursue  it  with  the  soul  of  love, 
And  ere  I  take  this  charm  off  from  her  sight 
(As  I  can  take  it  with  another  herb), 
Pll  make  her  render  up  her  page  to  me. 

[Exit  Oberon 

Another  part  of  the  Wood. 

Enter  Titania  and  her  train. 

Tit.  Come,  now  a  roundel,  and  a  fairy  song; 
Then,  for  the  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence  ; 
Some,  to  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds  ; 
Some,  war  with  rear  mice  for  their  leathern  wings, 
To  make  my  small  elves'  coats  ;  and  some  keep  back 
The  clamorous  owl,  that  nightly  hoots,  and  wonders 
At  our  quaint  spirits:  Sing  me  now  asleep  ; 
Then  to  your  offices,  and  let  me  rest. 

*  Love-in-idleness. — The  heart's-ease 


SHAKSPEARE.  125 


SONG 

1st  Fai.  You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue, 
Thorny  hedge-hogs,  be  not  seen. 
Newts  and  blind  worms,  do  no  wrong ; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen. 
Chorus.  Philomel  with  melody 

Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby, 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby :  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby ; 
Never  harm,  nor  spell,  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh  ; 
So,  good  night — with  lullaby. 
2d  Fai.  Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here ; 

Hence  you  long-legged  spinners,  hence : 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near; 
Worm  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 
Chorus.  Philomel  with  melody,  &c. 
1st  Fai.  Hence,  away ;  now  all  is  well : 
One,  aloof,  stand  sentinel. 

[Exeunt  Fairies.     Titania  sleeps. 

Enter  Oberon. 

Ober. — What  thou  seest  when  thou  dost  awake 

[Squeezes  the  flower  on  Titania's  eyelids. 
Do  it  for  thy  true  love  take  ; 
Love  and  languish  for  his  sake : 
Be  it  ounce,  or  cat,  or  bear, 
Pard,  or  boar  with  bristled  hair, 
In  thy  eye  that  shall  appear 
When  thou  wak'st,  it  is  thy  dear ; 
Wake,  when  some  vile  thing  is  near. 

[Exit. 

Enter  Bottom,  singing  ;   Puck  having  clapt  on  him  an  ass's  head 

Song. 

Bot.  The  ousel-cock,  so  black  of  hue, 
With  orange-tawny  bill, 
The  throstle  with  his  note  so  true, 
The  wren  with  little  quill — 
Tit.   What  angel  wakes  me  from  my  flowery  bed  ? 

[  Wakes. 
I  pray  thee,  gentle  mortal,  sing  again  ; 
Mine  ear  is   much  enaw''  0f  thy  note; 


126  SHAKSPEARE. 


So  is  mine  eye  enthralled  to  thy  shape ; 

And  thy  fair  virtue's  force  perforce  doth  move  me, 

On  the  first  view,  to  say,  to  swear,  I  love  thee. 
Bot.  Methinks,  mistress,  you  should  have  little  reason  for  that,  and  yet  to 
say  the  truth,  reason  and  love  keep  little  company  together  now-a-days. 
The  more  the  pity  that  some  honest  neighbors  will  not  make  them  friends. 
Nay,  I  can  gleek*  upon  occasion. 

Tit.  Thou  art  as  wise  as  thou  art  beautiful. 

Bot.  Not  so  neither ;  but  if  I  had  wit  enough  to  get  out  of  this  wood,  I 
have  enough  to  serve  mine  own  turn. 

Tit.  Out  of  this  wood  do  not  desire  to  go  : 

Thou  shalt  remain  here,  whether  thou  wilt  or  no. 

I  am  a  spirit  of  no  common  rate  ; 

The  summer  still  doth  tend  upon  my  state, 

And  I  do  love  thee ;  therefore  go  with  me ; 

I'll  give  thee  fairies  to  attend  on  thee ; 

And  they  shall  fetch  thee  jewels  from  the  deep, 

And  sing,  while  thou  on  pressed  flowers  dost  sleep  : 

And  I  will  purge  thy  mortal  grossness  so, 

That  thou  shalt  like  an  airy  spirit  go, 

Peas-blossom  !  Cobweb  !     Moth  !  and  Mustard-seed  ! 

Enter  four  Fairies. 

1st  Fai.  Ready. 

2nd  Fai.  And  I. 

3rd  Fai.  And  I. 

4th  Fai.  Where  shall  we  go  ? 

Tit.  Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman  ; 
Hop  in  his  walks,  and  gambol  in  his  eyes  ; 
Feed  him  with  apricocks  and  dewberries , 
With  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  and  mulberries : 
The  honey-bags  steal  from  the  humble-bees, 
And  for  night  tapers  crop  their  waxen  thighs, 
And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes, 
To  have  my  love  to  bed,  and  to  arise : 
And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies, 
To  fan  the  moon-beams  from  his  sleeping  eyes  ; 
JVod  to  htm,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies. 

1st  Fai.  Hail,  mortal ! 

2nd  Fai.  Hail ! 

3rd  Fai.  Hail ! 

4th  Fai.  Hail! 

Bot.  I   cry  your  worship's  mercy,  heartily.     I  beseech  your  worship's 
name. 

*  Gleek. — Banter. 


SHAKSPEARE.  127 


Cob.  Cobweb. 

Bot.  I  shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance,  good  Master  Cobweb.     Jf  I 
cut  my  finger,  I  shall  make  bold  with  you.      Your  name,  honest  gentle 
man  ? 

Peas.  Peas-blossom. 

Bot.  I  pray  you  commend  me  to  Mistress  Squash,  your  mother,  and  to 
Master  Peascod,  your  father.  Good  Master  Peas-Blossom,  I  shall  desire  you 
of  more  acquaintance  toe      Your  name,  I  beseech  you,  sir? 

Mus.  Mustard-seed. 

Bot.  Good  Master  Mustard-seed,  I  know  your  patience  welL  That  same 
cowardly,  giant-like  ox-beef  hath  devoured  many  gentlemen  of  your 
house.  I  promise  you  your  kindred  hath  made  my  eyes  water  ere  now.  I 
desire  you  more  acquaintance,  good  Master  Mustard-seed. 

Oberon  enters  unseen. 

Tit.  Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flowery  bed, 
While  I  thy  amiable  cheeks  do  coy 
And  stick  musk-roses  in  thy  sleek  smooth  head, 
And  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy. 
Bot.  Where's  Peas-blossom  ? 
Peas.  Ready. 

Bot.   Scratch  my  head,  Peas-blossom.     Where's  Monsieur  Cobweb  ? 
Cob.  Ready. 
Bot.  Monsieur  Cobweb,  good  monsieur,  get  up  your  weapons  in  your 
hands,  and  kill  me  a  red-hipped  humble  bee  on  the  top  of  a  thistle  ;  and, 
good  monsieur,  bring  me  the  honey-bag.     Do  not  fret  yourself  too  much 
with  the  action,  monsieur  ;  and,  good  monsieur,  have  a  care  the  honey-bag 
break  not;  I  would  be  loth  to  have  you  overflown  with  a  honey-bag, 
signior. — Where's  Monsieur  Mustard-seed  ? 
Must.  Ready. 

Bot.  Give  me  your  neif,*  Monsieur  Mustard-seed.     Pray  you,  leave  your 
courtesy,  good  monsieur. 
Must.  What's  your  will  ? 

Bot.  Nothing,  good  monsieur,  but  to  help  Cavaliero  Cobweb  to  scratch. 
I  must  to  the  barber's,  monsieur ;  for  methinks  I  am  marvellous  hairy 
about  the  face  ;  and  I  am  such  a  tender  ass,  if  my  hair  do  but  tickle  me  I 
must  scratch. 

Tit.  What,  wilt  thou  hear  some  music,  my  sweet  love  ? 
Bot.  I  have  a  reasonable  ear  in  music :  let  us  have  the  tongs  and  the 
bones 

Tit.  Or  say,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desirest  to  eat. 

Bot.  Truly  a  peck  of  provender.  I  could  munch  your  good  dry  oats. 
Methinks  I  have  a  great  desire  to  a  bottle  of  hay.  Good  hay,  sweet  hay, 
hath  no  fellow. 


*  JVeif.—  Fist. 


128  SHAKSPEARE. 


Tit  I  hare  a  venturous  fairy,  that  shall  seek  the  squirrel's  hoard,  and 
fetch  thee  new  nuts. 

Bot.  I  had  rather  have  a  handful  or  two  of  dried  peas: — but,  I  pray 
you,  let  none  of  your  people  stir  me ;  I  have  an  exposition  of  sleep  cotae 
upon  me. 

Tit.  Sleep  thou,  and  I  will  wind  thee  in  my  arms. 
Fairies,  begone,  and  be  all  ways  away. 
So  doth  the  woodbine  the  sweet  honeysuckle 
Gently  entwist ;-  the  female  ivy  so 
Enrings  the  barky  fingers  of  the  elm. 
0,  how  I  love  thee  !     How  I  dote  on  thee  ! 

[  They  sleep. 

Oberon  advances.    Enter  Puck. 
Ober.  Welcome,  good  Robin.     See'st  thou  this  sweet  sight  ? 
Her  dotage  now  I  do  begin  to  pity  : 
For  meeting  her  of  late  behind  the  wood, 
Seeking  sweet  savors  for  this  hateful  fool, 
I  did  upbraid  her,  and  fall  out  with  her : 
For  she  his  hairy  temples  then  had  rounded 
With  coronet  of  fresh  and  fragrant  flowers ; 
And  that  same  dew,  which  sometimes  on  the  buds 
Was  wont  to  swell,  like  round  and  orient  pearls, 
Stood  now  within  the  pretty  flowref  s  eyes, 
Like  tears,  that  did  their  own  disgrace  bewail. 
When  I  had,  at  my  pleasure,  taunted  her, 
And  she,  in  mild  tones,  begged  my  patience, 
I  then  did  ask  of  her  my  changeling  child  ; 
Which  straight  she  gave  me,  and  her  fairy  sent 
To  bear  him  to  my  bower  in  fairy  land. 
And  now  I  have  the  boy,  I  will  undo 
This  hateful  imperfection  of  her  eyes. 
And,  gentle  Puck,  take  this  transformed  scalp 
From  off  the  head  of  this  Athenian  swain; 
That  she  awaking  when  the  other  do, 
May  all  to  Athens  back  again  repair. 
And  think  no  more  of  this  night's  accidents, 
But  as  the  fierce  vexation  of  a  dream* 
But  first,  I  will  release  the  fairy  queen. 

Be  as  thou  wert  wont  to  be ; 

{Touching  her  eyes  with  a  herb  ) 

See,  as  thou  were  wont  to  see  ; 

Dian's  bud  o'er  Cupid's  flower 

*  But  as  the  fierce  vexation  of  a  dream. — This  fine  stray  verse  come* 
looking  in  among  the  rest  like  a  stern  face  through  flowers. 


SHAKSPEARE.  \i'i 


Hath  such  force  and  blessed  power. 
Now,  my  Titania ;  wake  you,  my  sweet  queen. 
Tit.  My  Oberon  !  what  visions  have  I  seen  ! 
Methought  I  was  enamored  of  an  ass. 
Ober.  There  lies  your  love. 

Tit.  How  came  these  things  to  pass  ? 

0,  how  mine  eyes  do  loathe  his  visage  now  ! 

Ober.  Silence  awhile.     Robin,  take  off  this  head. — 
Titania,  music  call ;  and  strike  more  dead 
Than  common  sleep,  of  all  these  five  the  sense. 
Tit.  Music  !  ho  !  music  !  such  as  charmeth  sleep. 
Puck.  Now,  when  thou  wak'st,  with  thine  own  fool's  eyes  peep. 
Ober.   Sound  music !  [still  music.]     Come,    my    queen,  take  hand 
with  me, 
And  rock  the  ground  whereon  these  sleepers  be. 
Now  thou  and  I  are  new  in  amity, 
And  will  to-morrow  midnight,  solemnly 
Dance  in  Duke  Theseus'  house  triumphantly, 
And  bless  it  to  all  fair  posterity : 
There  shall  the  pairs  of  faithful  lovers  be 
Wedded,  with  Theseus,  all  in  jollity. 

Puck.  Fairy  king,  attend  and  mark ; 

I  do  hear  the  morning  lark. 
Ober.  Then,  my  queen,  in  silence  sad,* 
Trip  we  after  the  night's  shade. 
We  the  globe  can  compass  soon, 
Swifter  than  the  wandering  moon. 

Tit.  Come,  my  lord,  and  in  our  flight 
Tell  me  how  it  came  this  night, 
That  I  sleeping  here  was  found 

With  these  mortals  on  the  ground.  [Exeunt. 

[Horns  sound  within 

5  Come  from  the  farthest  steep  of  India. 

Shakspeare  understood  the  charm  of  remoteness  in  poetry,  as 
lie  did  everything  else.  Oberon  has  been  dancing  on  the  sunny 
steeps  looking  towards  Cathay,  where  the 

Chinese  drive 


Their  cany  waggons  light. 
*  Sad. — Grave,  serious  (not  melancholy). 

10 


130  SHAKSPEAKE. 


THE  BRIDAL  HOUSE  BLESSED  BY  THE  FAIRIES. 

Enter  Puck. 

Puck.  Now  the  hungry  lion  roars,6 

And  the  wolf  behowls  the  moon, 
While  the  heavy  ploughman  snores, 

All  with  weary  task  fordone. 
Now  the  wasted  brands  do  glow, 

Whilst  the  scritch-owl  scritching  loud, 
Puts  the  wretch  that  lies  in  wo, 

In  remembrance  of  a  shroud. 
Now  it  is  the  time  of  night 

That  the  graves  all  gaping  wide, 
Every  one  lets  forth  his  sprite, 

In  the  churchway  paths  to  glide  : 
And  we  fairies  that  do  run 

By  the  triple  Hecate's  team, 
From  the  presence  of  the  sun, 
Following  darkness  like  a  dream, 
Now  are  frolick ;  not  a  mouse 
Shall  disturb  this  hallow'd  house  : 
I  am  sent,  with  broom  before, 
To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door. 

Enter  Oberon  and  Titania,  with  their  train. 

Ober.  Through  this  house  give  glimmering  light 
By  the  dead  and  drowsy  fire  : 
Every  elf  and  fairy  sprite, 
Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  brier  ; 
And  this  ditty  after  me 
Sing  and  dance  it  trippingly. 

Tita.  First  rehearse  this  song  by  rote : 
To  each  word  a  warbling  note, 
Hand  in  hand,  with  fairy  grace, 
Will  we  sing  and  bless  the  place. 

Song  and  Dance 

Ober.  Now,  until  the  break  of  day, 

Through  the  house  each  fairy  stray, 


SKAKSPEARE.  131 


To  the  best  bride-bed  will  we, 

Which  by  us  shall  blessed  be  ; 

And  the  issue  there  create 

Ever  shall  be  fortunate. 

So  shall  all  the  couples  three, 

Ever  true  in  loving  be ; 

And  the  blots  of  Nature's  hand 

Shall  not  in  their  issue  stand ; 

Never  mole,  hare-lip  or  scar 

Nor  mark  prodigious,  such  as  are 

Despised  in  nativity, 

Shall  upon  their  children  be. 

With  this  field-dew,  consecrate, 

Every  fairy  take  his  gait ; 

And  each  several  chamber  bless 

Through  this  palace  with  sweet  peace  ; 

E'er  shall  it  in  safety  rest, 

And  the  owner  of  it  blest. 
Trip  away; 
Make  no  stay : 

Meet  me  all  by  break  of  day. 

«"  J\row  the  hungry  lion  roars  .-"—Upon  the  songs  of  Puck  and 
Oberon,  Coleridge  exclaims,  "  Very  Anacreon  in  perfectness, 
proportion,  and  spontaneity !  So  far  it  is  Greek ;  but  then  add, 
O  !  what  wealth,  what  wild  rangings  and  yet  what  compression 
and  condensation  of  English  fancy  !  In  truth,  there  is  nothing 
in  Anacreon  more  perfect  than  these  thirty  lines,  or  half  so  rich 
and  imaginative.  They  form  a  speckless  diamond." — Literary 
Remains,  vol.  ii.,  p.  114. 


LOVERS  AND  MUSIC. 

Lorenzo  and  Jessica,  awaiting  the  return  home  of  Portia  and  Ne- 
rissa,  discourse  of  music,  and  then  welcome  with  it  the  bride  and 
her  attendant. 

Lor.  The  moon  shines  bright.     In  such  a  night  as  this,7 
When  the  siceet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees. 


132  SHAKSPEARE. 


And  they  did  make  no  noise, — in  such  a  night 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sighed  his  soul  towards  the  Grecian  tents,9 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew ; 
And  saw  the  liorts  shadow  ere  himself,9 
And  ran  dismay'd  away. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night 

Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand10 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  wav'd  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Jes.  In  such  a  night 

Medea  gather'd  the  enchanted  herbs11 
That  did  renew  old  ^Eson. 

Lor.  In  such  a  night 

Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew  ; 
And  with  an  unthrift  love  did  run  from  Venice, 
As  far  as  Belmont. 

Jes.  And  in  such  a  night 

Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  lov'd  her  well ; 
Stealing  her  soul  with  many  rows  of  faith, 
And  ne'er  a  true  one. 

Lor.  And  in  such  a  night 

Did  pretty  Jessica,  like  a  little  shrew, 
Slander  her  love,  and  he  forgave  it  her. 

Jes.  I  would  out-night  you,  did  nobody  come ; 
But,  hark  ;  I  hear  the  footing  of  a  man. 

Enter  Stephano. 

Lor.  Who  comes  so  fast  in  silence  of  the  night? 

Step.  A  friend. 

Lor.  A  friend  !  what  friend  ?  your  name,  I  pray  you,  friend  ? 

Step.  Stephano  is  my  name ;  and  I  bring  word 
My  mistress  will,  before  the  break  of  day, 
Be  here  at  Belmont :  she  doth  stray  about 
By  holy  crosses,  where  she  kneels  and  prays 
For  happy  wedlock  hours. 

Lor.  Who  comes  with  her  ? 

Step.  None  but  a  holy  hermit  and  her  maid 

Lor.  Sweet  soul,  let  'sin,  and  there  expect  their  coming. 
And  yet  no  matter ;  why  should  we  go  in  ? 
My  friend  Stephano,  signify,  I  pray  you, 
Within  the  house,  your  mistress  is  at  hand ; 
And  bring  your  music  forth  into  the  air. 

[Exit  Stephano. 


SHAKSPEARE.  133 


How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  the  bank  ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  into  our  ears ;  soft  stillness  and  the  night, 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  h  armony. 
Sit,  Jessica:  look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines*  of  bright  gold ; 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st,'2 
But  in  her  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
■  Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubims  ; 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls  ; 
But,  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  us  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 

Enter  Musicians. 

Come,  ho  !  and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn ; 

With  sweetest  touches  pierce  your  mistress'  ear, 

And  draw  her  home  with  music.  \Music. 

Jes.  I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet  music. 

Lor.  The  reason  is,  your  spirits  are  attentive  : 
For  do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd, 
A  race  of  youthful  and  unhanded  colts, 
Fetching  mad  bounds, — bellowing  and  neighing  loud, 
Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood ; 
If  they  but  hear,  perchance,  a  trumpet  sound, 
Or  any  air  of  music  touch  their  ears, 
You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand — 
Their  savage  eyes  turned  to  a  modest  gaze 
By  the  sweet  power  of  music.     Therefore  the  poet 
Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and  floods, 
Since  naught  so  stockish,  hard,  and  full  of  rage, 
But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  its  nature. 
The  man  that  hath  710  music  in  himself, 
Nor  is  not  mov'd  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 
Is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils  ; 
The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 
And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus  : 
Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. — Mark  the  music. 

*  Patines  (Patine,  Patene,  Ital.)  have  been  generally  understood  to  mean 
plates  of  gold  or  silver  used  in  the  Catholic  service.  A  new  and  interesting 
commentator,  however  (the  Rev.  Mr.  Hunter),  is  of  opinion  that,  the  proper 
word  is  patterns. 


134  SHAKSPEARE. 


Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa,  at  a  distance. 

Por.  That  light  we  see  is  burning  in  my  hall ; 
How  far  that  little  candle  throws  its  beams  ! 
So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world. 

JVer.  When  the  moon  shone,  we  did  not  see  the  candle 

Por.  So  doth  the  greater  glory  dim  the  less : 
A  substitute  shines  brightly  as  a  king, 
Until  a  king  be  by  ;  and  then  his  state 
Empties  himself,  as  doth  the  inland  brook 
Into  the  main  of  waters.     Music  !  hark  ! 

JVer.  It  is  your  music,  madam,  of  the  house 

Por.  Nothing  is  good  I  see  without  respect; 
Methinks  it  sounds  much  sweeter  than  by  day. 

JVer.  Silence  bestows  that  virtue  on  it,  madam. 

Por.  The  crow  doth  sing  as  sweetly  as  the  lark, 
When  neither  is  attended ;  and,  I  think, 
The  nightingale,  if  she  should  sing  by  day, 
When  every  goose  is  cackling,  would  be  thought 
No  better  a  musician  than  the  wren. 
How  many  things  by  season,  season'd  are, 
To  their  right  praise,  and  true  perfection  ! 
Peace,  hoa  !  the  moon  sleeps  with  Endymion, 
And  would  not  be  awak'd  !  [Music  ceases. 

Lor.  That  is  the  voice, 

Or  I  am  much  deceiv'd,  of  Portia. 

Por.  He  knows  me,  as  the  blind  man  knows  the  cuckoo, 
By  the  bad  voice. 

Lor.  Dear  lady,  welcome  home.13 

7  "  In  such  a  night  as  this,"  &c — All  the  stories  here  alluded  to, — 
Troilus  and  Cressida,  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  Dido  and  iEneas, 
Jason  and  Medea,  are  in  Chaucer's  Legend  of  Good  Women.  It 
is  pleasant  to  see  our  great  poet  so  full  of  his  predecessor.  He 
cannot  help,  however,  inventing  particulars  not  to  be  found  in 
his  original. 

8  And  sigh'd  his  soul,  &c. 

"  The  day  go'th  fast,  and  after  that  came  eve, 
And  yet  came  not  Troilus  to  Crescid: 
He  looketh  forth  by  hedge,  by  tree,  by  greve  (grove), 
And  far  his  head  over  the  wall  he  laid." 

Clarke's  Chaucer,  vol.  ii.,  p.  151. 

»  "  And  saw  the  lion's  shadow." — Thisbe  in  Chaucer  does  not  see 


SHAKSPEARE.  132 


the  shadow  before  she  sees  the  beast  (a  fine  idea  !) ;  nor  does  she 
in  Ovid.     In  both  poets  it  is  a  lioness  seen  by  moonlight. 

"  With  bloody  mouth,  of  strangling  of  a  beast." 

Ceede  leaena  bourn  spumantes  oblita  rictus. 

Metam.,  lib.  iv.,  v.  97. 

10  "Stood  Dido  ivith  a  willow  in  her  hand.'" — The  willow,  a  symbol 
of  being  forsaken,  is  not  in  Chaucer.  It  looks  as  if  Shakspeare 
had  seen  it  in  a  picture,  where  it  would  be  more  necessary  than 
in  a  poem. 

»  "  Medea  gathered  the  enchanted  herbs." — Shakspeare  has  here 
gone  from  Chaucer  to  Gower.  Warton,  in  his  Observations  on 
the  Faerie  Queene,  vol.  i.,  p.  361,  edit.  1807,  has  noticed  a 
passage  in  Gower's  story,  full  of  imagination.  The  poet  is 
speaking  of  Medea  going  out  upon  the  business  noticed  by 
Shakspeare. 

Thus  it  fell  upon  a  night, 

When  there  was  naught  but  starrie  light, 

She  was  vanish'd  right  as  she  list, 

That  no  wight  but  herself  wist, 

And  that  was  at  midnight  tide. 

The  world  was  still  on  every  side. 

With  open  head  and  foot  all  bare  ; 

Her  hair  too  spread,  she  'gan  to  fare  ; 

Upon  her  clothes  girt  she  was, 

And  speecheless,  upon  the  grass, 

She  g  I  ode*  forth,  as  an  adder  doth. 

12  "There's  not  the  smallest  orb." — The  "warbler  of  wood-notes 
wild"  has  here  manifestly  joined  with  Plato  and  other  learned 
spirits  to  suggest  to  Milton  his  own  account  of  the  Music  of  the 
Spheres,  which  every  reader  of  taste,  I  think,  must  agree  with 
Mr.  Knight  in  thinking  "  less  perfect  in  sentiment  and  har- 
mony."— Pictorial  Shakspeare,  vol.  ii.,  p.  448.  The  best  thing 
in  it  is  what  is  observed  by  Warton  :  that  the  listening  to  the 
spheres  is  the  recreation  of  the  Genius  of  the  Wood  (the  speaker) 
after  his  day's  duty,  "  when  the  world  is  locked  up  in  sleep  and 
silence." 

*  Glode,  is  glided.  If  Chaucer's  contemporary  had  written  often  thus, 
his  name  would  have  been  as  famous. 


13G  SHAKSPEARE. 


Then  listen  I 
To  the  celestial  Sirens'  harmony, 
That  sit  upon  the  nine  infolded  spheres, 
And  sing  to  those  that  hold  the  vital  shears, 
And  turn  the  adamantine  spindle  round, 
On  which  the  fate  of  gods  and  men  is  wound. 
Such  sweet  compulsion  doth  in  music  lie 
To  lull  the  daughters  of  Necessity, 
And  keep  unsteady  Nature  in  her  law, 
And  the  low  world  in  measur'd  motion  draw 
After  the  heavenly  tune,  which  none  can  hear 
Of  human  mould,  with  gross  unpurged  ear. 

Arcades,  v.  62. 

The  best  account  I  remember  to  have  read  of  the  Music  of  the 
Spheres  is  in  the  History  of  Music  by  Hawkins. 

'3  "  Dear  lady,  welcome  home:'1 — Never  was  a  sweeter  or  more 
fitting  and  bridal  elegance,  than  in  the  whole  of  this  scene,  in 
which  gladness  and  seriousness  prettily  struggle,  each  alternate- 
ly yielding  predominance  to  the  other.  The  lovers  are  at  once 
in  heaven  and  earth.  Thenew  bride  is  "drawn  home"  with  the 
soul  of  love  in  the  shape  of  music  ;  and  to  keep  her  giddy  spirits 
down,  she  preached  that  little  womanly  sermon  upon  a  good  deed 
shining  in  a  "naughty  world."  The  whole  play  is,  in  one  sense 
of  the  word,  the  most  picturesque  in  feeling  of  all  Shakspeare's. 
The  sharp  and  malignant  beard  of  the  Jew  (himself  not  unrecon- 
ciled to  us  by  the  affections)  comes  harmlessly  against  the  soft 
cheek  of  love. 


ANTONY  AND  THE  CLOUDS. 

Ant.  Eros,  thou  yet  behold'st  me  ? 

Eros.  Ay,  noble  lord. 

Ant.   Sometime  we  see  a  cloud  tkafs  dragonish : 
A  vapor  sometime ;  like  a  bear,  or  lion, 
A  tower'd  citadel,  a  pendant  rock, 
A  forked  mountain,  or  blue  promontory 
With  trees  uponH  that  nod  unto  the  world, 
And  mock  our  eyes  with  air  ;  thou  hast  seen  these  signs ; 
They  are  black  Vesper's  pageants 

Eros.  Ay,  my  lord. 


SHAKSPEARE.  137 


Ant   That  which  is  now  a  horse,  even  with  a  thought 
The  rack  dislimns  ;  and  makes  it  indistinct, 
As  water  is  in  water. 

Eros.  It  does,  my  lord. 

Ant.  My  good  knave,  Eros,  now  thy  captain  is 
Even  such  a  bodv  : — here  I  am, — Antony — 
Yet  cannot  hold  this  shape. 


YOUNG  WARRIORS. 

Hotspur.  My  cousin  Vernon !  welcome,  by  my  soul ! 

Sir  Richard  Vernon.  Pray  God,  my  news  be  worth  a  welcome,  lord 
The  Earl  of  Westmoreland,  seven  thousand  strong, 
Is  marching  hitherwards ;  with  him,  Prince  John. 

Hot.  No  harm  :  what  more  ? 

Ver.  And  further,  I  have  learn'd, — 
The  king  himself  in  person  is  set  forth, 
Or  hitherwards  intended  speedily, 
With  strong  and  mighty  preparation. 

Hot.  He  shall  be  welcome  too.     Where  is  his  son, 
The  nimble-footed  mad-cap  Prince  of  Wales, 
And  his  comrades,  that  daff'd  the  world  aside, 
And  bid  it  pass  ? 

Ver.  All  furnished,  all  in  arms, 
All  plum'd  like  estridges  that  wing  the  wind  ; 
Bated  like  eagles  having  lately  bath'd  ; 
Glittering  in  golden  coats,  like  images ; 
As  full  of  spirit  as  the  month  of  May 
And  gorgeous  as  the  sun  at  midsummer  ; 
Wanton  as  youthful  goats,  wild  as  young  bulls, 
I  saw  young  Harry, — with  his  beaver  on, 
His  cuises  on  his  thighs,  gallantly  arm'd, — 
Rise  from  the  ground  like  feathered  Mercury, 
And  vaulted  with  such  ease  into  his  seat, 
As  if  an  angel  dropp'd  down  from  the  clouds, 
To  turn  and  wind  a  fiery  Pegasus, 
And  witch  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship. 

Hot.  No  more,  no  more  ;  worse  than  the  sun  in  March, 
This  praise  doth  nourish  agues.     Let  them  come ; 
They  come  like  sacrifices  in  their  trim, 
And  to  thefire-ey'd  maid  of  smoky  war, 


138  SHAKSPEARE 


All  hot,  and  bleeding,  will  we  offer  them  ; 
The  mailed  Mars  shall  on  his  altar  sit, 
Up  to  the  ears  in  blood.     I  am  on  fire, 
To  hear  this  rich  reprisal  is  so  nigh, 
And  yet  not  ours  : — Come,  let  me  take  my  horse, 
Who  is  to  bear  me,  like  a  thunder-bolt, 
Against  the  bosom  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  : 
Harry  to  Harry  shall,  hot  (query  not  ?)  horse  to  horse,14 
Meet,  and  ne'er  part,  till  one  drop  down  a  corse. 

14  "  Harry  to  Harry  shall,  hot  horse  to  horse." — I  cannot  help  think- 
ing that  the  word  hot  in  this  line  ought  to  be  not.  "  Hot  horse  to 
horse"  is  not  a  very  obvious  mode  of  speech,  and  it  is  too  obvi- 
ous an  image.  The  horses  undoubtedly  would  be  hot  enough. 
But  does  not  Hotspur  mean  to  say  that  the  usual  shock  of  horses 
will  not  be  sufficient  for  the  extremity  of  his  encounter  with  the 
Prince  of  Wales ;  their  own  bodies  are  to  be  dashed  together, 
and  not  merely  the  horses  : 

14  Harry  to  Harry  shall,  not  horse  to  horse  : 

so  closely  does  he  intend  that  their  combat  shall  hug. 


IMOGEN    IN    BED. 

(from  cymbeline.) 

(Jachimo,  dared  by  Imogen's  husband  to  make  trial  of  her  fidelity,  hides 
in  her  chamber  in  order  to  bring  away  pretended  proofs  against  it.) 

Imo.  (reading  in  bed.)  Who's  there  ?  my  woman  Helen  ? 

Lady.  Please  you,  madam. 

Imo.  What  hour  is  it  ? 

Lady.  Almost  midnight,  madam. 

Imo.  I  have  read  three  hours  then :  mine  eyes  are  weak : 
Fold  down  the  leaf  where  I  have  left : — to  bed  : 
Take  not  away  the  taper  ;  leave  it  burning  : 
And  if  thou  canst  awake  by  four  o'  the  clock, 
I  prithee,  call  me.     Sleep  hath  seized  me  wholly. 

[Exit  Lady. 
To  your  protection  I  commend  me,  Gods  ! 
From  fairies,  and  the  tempters  of  the  night. 


SHAKSPEARE.  139 


Guard  me,  I  beseech  ye  ! 

[Sleeps.    Jachimo,  from  the  trunk. 
Jack.  The  crickets  sing,  and  man's  o'er-labor'd  sense 
Repairs  itself  by  rest :  our  Tarquin  thus 
Did  softly  press  the  rushes,  ere  he  waken'd 
The  chastity  he  wounded. — Cytherea, 
How  bravely  thou  com'st  thy  bed  !  fresh  lily, 
And  whiter  than  the  sheets  !  that  I  might  touch  ! 
But  kiss ;  one  kiss  ! — Rubies  unparagon'd, 
How  dearly  they  do  't — '  Tis  her  breathing  that 
Perfumes  the  chamber  thus: — the  flame  o'  the  taper 
Bows  towards  her  ;  and  would  under-peep  her  lids, 
To  see  the  enclosed  lights  ;  now  canopied 
Under  those  windows,  white  and  azure,  lac'd 
With  blue  of  heaven's  own  tint.     But  my  design 
To  note  the  chamber, — I  will  write  all  down  : 
Such  and  such  pictures : — there  the  window  :  such 
The  adornment  of  her  bed : — the  arras,  figures, 
Why,  such  and  such, — and  the  contents  o'  the  story. 
Ah,  but  some  natural  notes  about  her  body 
Above  ten  thousand  meaner  movables 
Would  testify,  to  enrich  mine  inventory. 
O  sleep,  thou  ape  of  Death,  lie  dull  upon  her  ! 
And  be  her  sense  but  as  a  monument, 
Thus  in  a  chapel  lying  ! — Come  off,  come  off; 

[  Takes  off  her  bracelet. 
As  slippery!,  as  the  Gordian  knot  was  hard  ! 
'Tis  mine,  and  this  will  witness  outwardly, 
As  strongly  as  the  conscience  does  within, 
To  the  madding  of  her  lord.     On  her  left  breast, 
Jl  mole,  cinque-spotted,  like  the  crimson  drops 
I'  the  bottom  of  a  cowslip.     Here's  a  voucher, 
Stronger  than  ever  law  could  make :  this  secret 
Will  force  him  think  I  have  pick'd  the  lock,  and  ta'en 
The  treasure  of  her  honor.     No  more.     To  what  end  ? 
Why  should  I  write  this  down  that's  riveted, 
Screw'd,  to  my  memory  ?     She  hath  been  reading  late 
The  tale  of  Tereus  ;  here  the  leaf's  turn'd  down 
Where  Philomel  gave  up  : — I  have  enough  : — 
To  the  trunk  again,  and  shut  the  spring  of  it. 
Swift,  swift,  you  dragons  of  the  night,  that  dawning 
May  bare  the  raven's  eye  !     I  lodge  in  fear ; 
Though  this  a  heavenly  angel,  hell  is  here. 

[Clock  strikes. 
One,  two,  three, — Time,  time  ! 

[  Goes  into  the  trunk.     The  scene  closes 


i40  BEN  JONSON. 


BEN  JONSON, 

BORN,    1574, — DIED,  1637. 


«A^A^AAAAAA^< 


If  Ben  Jonson  had  not  tried  to  do  half  what  he  did,  he  would 
have  had  a  greater  fame.  His  will  and  ambition  hurt  him,  as 
they  always  hurt  genius  when  set  in  front  of  it.  Lasting  repu- 
tation of  power  is  only  to  be  obtained  by  power  itself;  and  this, 
in  poetry,  is  the  result  not  so  much,  if  at  all,  of  the  love  of  the 
power,  as  of  the  power  of  love, — the  love  of  truth  and  beauty, — 
great  and  potent  things  they, — not  the  love  of  self,  which  is 
generally  a  very  little  thing.  The  "  supposed  rugged  old 
bard,"  notwithstanding  his  huffing  and  arrogance,  had  elegance, 
feeling,  imagination,  great  fancy ;  but  by  straining  to  make 
them  all  greater  than  they  were,  bringing  in  the  ancients  to 
help  him,  and  aiming  to  include  the  lowest  farce  (perhaps  by 
way  of  outdoing  the  universality  of  Shakspeare),  he  became 
as  gross  in  his  pretensions,  as  drink  had  made  him  in  person. 
His  jealous  irritability  and  assumption  tired  out  the  gentlest  and 
most  generous  of  his  contemporaries — men  who  otherwise  really 
liked  him  (and  he  them), — Decker  for  one  ;  and  he  has  ended  in 
appearing  to  posterity  rather  the  usurper  than  the  owner  of  a 
true  renown.  He  made  such  a  fuss  with  his  learning,  that  he  is 
now  suspected  to  have  had  nothing  else.  Hazlitt  himself  can- 
not give  him  credit  for  comic  genius,  so  grave  and  all-in-all  does 
his  pedantry  appear  to  that  critic, — an  erroneous  judgment,  as 
it  seems  to  me, — who  cannot  help  thinking,  that  what  altogether 
made  Ben  what  he  was  projected  his  ultra-jovial  person  rather 
towards  comedy  than  tragedy  ;  and  as  a  proof  of  this,  his  trage- 
dies are  all  borrowed,  but  his  comedies  his  own.  Twelfth 
Night  and  other  plays  of  Shakspeare  preceded  and  surpassed 


BEN  JONSON.  Ul 


him  in  his  boasted  "humor;"  but  his  Alchemist,  and  especially 
his  Volpone,  seem  to  me  at  the  head  of  all  severer  English 
comedy.  Ihe  latter  is  a  masterpiece  of  plot  and  treatment. 
Ben's  fancy,  a  power  tending  also  rather  to  the  comic  than 
tragic,  was  in  far  greater  measure  than  his  imagination  ;  and 
their  strongest  united  efforts,  as  in  the  Witches'  Meeting,  and 
the  luxurious  anticipations  of  Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  produce  a 
smiling  as  well  as  a  serious  admiration.  The  three  happiest  of 
all  his  short  effusions  (two  of  which  are  in  this  volume)  are  the 
epitaph  on  Lady  Pembroke,  the  address  to  Cynthia  (both  of 
which  are  serious  indeed,  but  not  tragic),  and  the  Catch  of  the 
Satyrs,  which  is  unique  for  its  wild  and  melodious  mixture  of 
the  comic  and  the  poetic.  His  huge  farces,  to  be  sure  (such  as 
Bartholomew  Fair),  are  execrable.  They  seem  to  talk  for  talk- 
ing's  sake,  like  drunkards.  And  though  his  famous  verses, 
beginning  "  Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest,"  are  elegantly 
worded,  I  never  could  admire  them.  There  is  a  coarseness 
implied  in  their  very  refinement. 

After  all,  perhaps  it  is  idle  to  wish  a  writer  had  been  other- 
wise than  he  was,  especially  if  he  is  an  original  in  his  way,  and 
worthy  of  admiration.  His  faults  he  may  have  been  unable  to 
mend,  and  they  may  not  have  been  without  their  use,  even  to 
his  merits.  If  Ben  had  not  been  Ben,  Sir  Epicure  Mammon 
might  not  have  talked  in  so  high  a  tone.  We  should  have 
missed,  perhaps,  something  of  the  excess  and  altitude  of  his  ex- 
pectations— of  his 

Gums  of  Paradise  and  eastern  air. 

Let  it  not  be  omitted,  that  Milton  went  to  the  masques  and 
odes  of  Ben  Jonson  for  some  of  the  elegances  even  of  his  digni- 
fied muse.  See  Warton's  edition  of  his  Minor  Poems,  passim. 
Our  extracts  shall  commence  with  one  of  these  odes,  combining 
classic  elegance  with  a  tone  of  modern  feeling,  and  a  music  like 
a  serenade. 


142  BEN  JONSON. 


TO  CYNTHIA;— THE  MOON. 

Queen  of  hunters,  chaste  and  fair, 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  asleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 
State  in  wonted  manner  keep, 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess,  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose  ; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 
Heav'n  to  clear,  when  day  did  close. 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess,  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 

And  thy  crystal  shining  quiver ; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever ; 
Thou,  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night, 
Goddess,  excellently  bright. 


THE  LOVE-MAKING  OF  LUXURY. 

Volpone  makes  love  to  Celia. 

Volp.  See,  behold, 

What  thou  art  queen  of;  not  in  expectation, 
As  I  feed  others,  but  possess' d  and  crown'd. 
See  here,  a  rope  of  pearl ;  and  each,  more  orient 
Than  that  the  brave  ^Egyptian  queen  caroused  : 
Dissolve  and  drink  them.     See,  a  carbuncle, 
May  put  out  both  the  eyes  of  our  St.  Mark ; 
A  diamond  would  have  bought  Lollia    Pauliner, 
When  she  came  in  like  star-light,  hid  with  jewels, 
That  were  the  spoils  of  provinces  ;  take  these 
And  wear  and  lose  them ;  yet  remains  an  ear-ring 


BEN  JONSON.  143 


To  purchase  them  again,  and  this  whole  state. 

A  gem  but  worth  a  private  patrimony, 

Is  nothing  :  we  will  eat  such  at  a  meal. 

The  heads  of  parrots,  tongues  of  nightingales, 

The  brains  of  peacocks,  and  of  estriches, 

Shall  be  our  food  :  and,  could  we  get  the  phtenix, 

Though  nature  lost  her  kind,  she  were  our  dish. 

Cel.  Good  sir,  these  things  might  move  a  mind  aiFected 
With  such  delights  ;  but  I,  whose  innocence 
Is  all  I  can  think  wealthy,  or  worth  th'  enjoying, 
And  which,  once  lost,  I  have  naught  to  lose  beyond  it, 
Cannot  be  taken  with  these  sensual  baits  : 
If  you  have  conscience 

Volp.  'Tis  the  beggar's  virtue  : 

If  thou  had  wisdom,  hear  me,  Celia. 
Thy  baths  shall  be  the  juice  of  July  flowers, 
Spirit  of  roses  and  of  violets, 
The  milk  of  unicorns,  and  panthers'  breath 
Gather'd  in  bags,  and  mixt  with  Cretan  wines. 
Our  drink  shall  be  prepared  gold  and  amber ; 
Which  we  will  take  until  my  roof  whirl  round 
With  the  vertigo  :  and  my  dwarf  shall  dance, 
My  eunuch  sing,  my  fool  make  up  the  antic  ; 
Whilst  we,  in  changed  shape,  act  Ovid's  tales ; 
Thou,  like  Europa  now,  and  I  like  Jove ; 
Then  I  like  Mars,  and  thou  like  Erycine  : 
So,  of  the  rest,  till  we  have  quite  run  through 
And  wearied  all  the  fables  of  the  gods. 


TOWERING  SENSUALITY. 

Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  expecting  to  obtain  the  Philosopher's  Stone, 
riots  in  the  anticipation  of  enjoyment. 

Enter  Mammon  and  Surly. 

Mam.  Come  on,  sir.     Now,  you  set  your  foot  on  shore 
In  Novo  Orbe :  here's  the  rich  Peru : 
And  there  within,  sir,  are  the  golden  wines, 
Great  Solomon's  Ophir  !  he  was  sailing  to  't 
Three  years  ;  but  we  have  reach'd  it  in  ten  months. 
This  is  the  day,  wherein  to  all  my  friends, 
I  will  pronounce  the  happy  word,  Bje  rich. 
Where  is  my  Subtle  there  !     Within  ! 


144  BEN  JONSON. 

Enter  Face. 

How  now  ? 
Do  we  succeed  ?     Is  our  day  come  ?  and  holds  it ? 

Face.  The  evening  will  set  red  upon  you,  sir  ; 
You  have  color  for  it,  crimson  :   the  red  ferment 
Has  done  his  office  :   three  hours  hence  prepare  you 
To  see  projection. 

Mam.  Pertinax,  my  Surly, 
Again  I  say  to  thee,  aloud,  Be  rich. 
This  day  thou  shalt  have  ingots  ;  and  to-morrow 
Give  lords  the  affront. — Is  it,  my  Zephyrus,  right  ?— 
Thou'rt  sure  thou  saw'st  it  blood  ? 

Face.  Both  blood  and  spirit,  sir. 

Mam.  I  will  have  all  my  beds  blown  up,  not  stuff'd  : 
Down  is  too  hard. — My  mists 
I'll  have  of  perfume,  vapored  'bout  the  room 
To  lose  ourselves  in  ;  and  my  baths,  like  pits, 
To  fall  into :  from  whence  we  will  come  forth, 
And  roll  us  dry  in  gossamer  and  roses, 
Is  it  arriv'd  at  ruby  ? — And  my  flatterers 
Shall  be  the  pure  and  gravest  of  divines. — 
And  they  shall  fan  me  with  ten  estrich  tails 
A-piece,  made  in  a  plume  to  gather  wind. 
We  will  be  brave,  Puffe,  now  we  have  the  med'cine 
My  meat  shall  all  come  in,  in  Indian  shells, 
Dishes  of  agate,  set  in  gold,  and  studded 
With  emeralds,  sapphires,  hyacinths,  and  rubies, 
The  tongues  of  carps,  doumice,  and  camels'  heels, 
Boil'd  in  the  spirit  of  sol,  and  dissolv'd  pearl, 
Apicius'  diet  'gainst  the  epilepsy : 
And  I  will  eat  these  broths  with  spoons  of  amber, 
Headed  with  diamond  and  carbuncle. 
My  foot-boy  shall  eat  pheasants,  calver'd  salmons, 
Knots,  godwits,  lampreys  :  I  myself  will  have 
The  beards  of  barbels  serv'd,  instead  of  salads  ; 
Oil'd  mushrooms ;  and  the  swelling,  unctuous  paps 
Of  a  fat  pregnant  sow,  newly  cut  off, 
Drest  with  an  exquisite  and  poignant  sauce, 
For  which  I'll  say  unto  my  cook,  "  There's  gold; 
Go  forth,  and  be  a  knight." 

Face.  Sir,  I'll  go  look 

A  little,  how  it  heightens. 

[Exit  Face 

Mam.  Do.     My  shirts 

I'll  have  of  taffeta-sarsnet,  soft  and  light 


BEN  JONSON.  14l» 


As  cobwebs ;  and  for  all  my  other  raiment, 
It  shall  be  such  as  might  provoke  the  Persian, 
Were  he  to  teach  the  world  riot  anew. 
My  gloves  of  fishes  and  birds'  skins,  perfum'd 
With  gums  of  Paradise  and  eastern  air. 

Sur.  And  do  you  think  to  have  the  stone  with  this  ? 

Mam.     No  ;  I  do  think  t'  have  all  this  with  the  stone  ! 

Sur    Why,  I  have  heard  he  must  be  homo  frugi, 
A  pious,  holy,  and  religious  man, 
One  free  from  mortal  sin,  a  very  virgin. 

Mam.  That  makes  it,  Sir ;  he  is  so  ;  but  I  bxjy  it. 


THE  WITCH. 
From  the  Pastoral  Fragment,  entitled  "  The  Sad  Shepherd." 

Aiken.  Know  ye  the  witch's  dell  ? 

Scathlock.  No  more  than  I  do  know  the  walks  of  hell- 

Alken.  Within  a  gloomy  dimble  she  doth  dwell, 
Down  in  a  pit,  o'ergrown  with  brakes  and  briars. 
Close  by  the  ruins  of  a  shaken  abbey, 
Torn  with  an  earthquake  down  unto  the  ground, 
'Mongst  graves  and  grots,  near  an  old  charnel-house, 
Where  you  shall  find  her  sitting  in  her  form, 
As  fearful  and  melancholic  as  that 
She  is  about;  with  caterpillars'  kelis, 
And  knotty  cobwebs,  rounded  in  with  spells. 
Then  she  steals  forth  to  relief  in  the  fogs, 
And  rotten  mists,  upon  the  fens  and  bogs, 
Down  to  the  drownid  lands  of  Lincolnshire  ; 
To  make  ewes  cast  their  lambs,  swine  eat  their  farrow, 
And  housewives'  tun  not  work,  nor  the  milk  churn  ! 
Writhe  children's  wrists,  and  suck  their  breath  in  sleep, 
Get  vials  of  their  blood  !  and  where  the  sea 
Casts  up  his  slimy  ooze,  search  for  a  weed 
To  open  locks  with,  and  to  rivet  charms, 
Planted  about  her  in  the  wicked  feat 
Of  all  her  mischiefs  ;  which  are  manifold. 

John.  I  wonder  such  a  story  could  be  told 
Of  her  dire  deeds. 

George.  I  thought  a  witch's  banks 

Had  inclosed  nothing  but  the  merry  pranks 
Of  some  old  woman. 

11 


146  BEN  JONSON 

Scarlet.  Yes,  her  malice  more. 

Scath    As  it  would  quickly  appear  had  we  the  store 
Of  his  collects. 

George.  Ay,  this  good  learned  man 

Can  speak  her  right. 

Scar.  He  knows  her  shifts  and  haunts 

Aiken.  And  all  her  wiles  and  turns.     The  venom'd  plants 
Wherewith  she  kills  !  where  the  sad  mandrake  grows, 
Whose  groans  are  deathful ;  and  dead-numbing  night-shade, 
The  stupefying  hemlock,  adder's  tongue, 
And  martagan :  the-shrieks  of  luckless  owls 
We  hear,  and  croaking  night  crows  in  the  air! 
Green-bellied  snakes,  blue  fire-drakes  in  the  sky, 
And  giddy  flitter-mice  with  leather  wings  ! 
The  scaly  beetles,  with  their  habergeons, 
That  make  a  humming  murmur  as  they  fly  '. 
There  in  the  stocks  of  trees,  white  fairies  do  dwell, 
And  span-long  elves  that  dance  about  a  pool, 
With  each  a  little  changeling  in  their  arms  ! 
The  airy  spirits  play  with  falling  stars, 
And  mount  the  spheres  of  fire  to  kiss  the  moon  ! 
While  she  sits  reading  by  the  glow-worm's  light, 
Or  rotten  wood,  o'er  which  the  worm  hath  crept, 
The  baneful  schedule  of  her  nocent  charms. 


A  MEETING  OF  WITCHES 

FOR  THE  PURPOSE  OF  DOING  A  MISCHIEF    TO   A   JOYFUL  HOUSE,  AND  BP.IW;- 
ING  AN    EVIL    SPIRIT   INTO   BIRTH   IN    THE   MIDST  OF  IT. 

From  the  Masque  of  Queens. 

Charm    The  owl  is  abroad,  the  bat  and  the  toad, 

And  so  is  the  cat-a-mountain  ; 
The  ant  and  the  mole  both  sit  in  a  hole, 

And  the  frog  peeps  out  of  the  fountain 
The  dogs  they  do  bay,  and  the  timbrels  play 

The  spindle  is  now  a  turning ; 
The  moon  it  is  red,  and  the  stars  are  fled, 

But  all  the  sky  is  a-burning. 


BEN  JONSON.  147 


1st  Hag.  I  have  been  all  day  looking  after 
A  raven,  feeding  upon  a  quarter ; 
And  soon  as  she  turn'd  her  beak  to  the  south, 
I  snatch'd  this  morsel  out  of  her  mouth 

'2nd  Hag.  I  have  been  gathering  wolves'  hairs, 

The  mad  dog's  foam,  and  the  adder's  ears ; 
The  spurging  of  a  dead  man's  eyes, 
And  all  since  the  evening  star  did  rise 

3rd  Hag.  I,  last  night,  lay  all  alone 

On  the  ground  to  hear  the  mandrake  groan  ; 
And  pluck' d  him  up,  though  he  grew  full  low, 
And  as  had  done,  the  cock  did  crow. 

4th  Hag.  And  I  have  been  choosing  out  this  skull 
From  charnel-houses  that  were  full ; 
From  private  grots,  and  public  pits  ; 
And  frightened  a  sexto?i  out  of  his  wits. 

5th  Hag.  Under  a  cradle  I  did  creep, 

By  day ;  and  when  the  child  was  asleep 
At  night,  I  suck'd  the  breath  ;  and  rose, 
And  pluck'd  the  nodding  nurse  by  the  nose. 

6th  Hag.  I  had  a  dagger  :  what  did  I  with  that  ? 
KilVd  an  infant  to  have  his  fat. 
I  scratch'd  out  the  eyes  of  the  owl  before, 
I  tore  the  bat's  wing ;  what  would  you  have  more  ? 

Dame.       Yes,  I  have  brought  to  help  our  vows 
Horned  poppy,  cypress  boughs, 
The  fig-tree  wild  that  grows  on  tombs, 
And  juice  that  from  the  larch-tree  comes, 
The  basilisk's  blood  and  the  viper's  skin  ; 
And  now  our  orgies  let  us  begin. 

You  fiends  and  fairies,  if  yet  any  be 

Worse  than  ourselves,  you  that  have  quak'd  to  see 

These  knots  untied  (she  unties  them) — exhale  earth's  rottenest 

vapors, 
And  strike  a  blindness  through  these  blazing  tapers 

Charm.  Deep,  0  deep  we  lay  thee  to  sleep  , 

We  leave  thee  drink  by,  if  thou  chance  to  be  dry ; 


148 


BEN  JONSON. 


Both  milk  and  blood,  the  dew  and  the  flood; 
We  breathe  in  thy  bed,  at  the  foot  and  the  head  ; 
And  when  thou  dost  wake,  Dame  Earth  shall  quake 
Such  a  birth  to  make,  as  is  the  Blue  Brake. 

Dame.     Stay ;  all  our  charms  do  nothing  win 
Upon  the  night ;  our  labor  dies, 
Our  magic  feature  will  not  rise, 
Nor  yet  the  storm  !     We  must  repeat 
More  direful  voices  far,  and  beat 
The  ground  toith  vipers,  till  it  sweat. 

Charm.  Blacker  go  in,  and  blacker  come  out: 
At  thy  going  down,  we  give  thee  a  shout; 

Hoo! 
At  thy  rising  again  thou  shalt  have  two  ; 
And  if  thou  dost  what  we  'd  have  thee  do, 
Thou  shalt  have  three,  thou  shalt  have  four, 

Hoo  !  har  !  har  !  hoo  ! 
A  cloud  of  pitch,  a  spur  and  a  switch, 
To  haste  him  away,  and  a  whirlwind  play, 
Before  and  after,  with  thunder  for  laughter 
And  storms  of  joy,  of  the  roaring  boy, 
His  head  of  a  drake,  his  tail  of  a  snake. 

(JL  loud  and  beautiful  music  is  heard,  and  the  Witches  vanish  ) 


A  CATCH  OF  SATYRS. 

Silenus  bids  his   Saty?s  awaken  a  couple  of  Sylvans,  who  have  fallen 
asleep  while  they  should  have  kept  watch. 


Buz,  quoth  the  blue  fly, 

Hum,  quoth  the  bee ; 
Buz  and  hum  they  cry, 

And  so  do  we. 
In  his  ear,  in  his  nose, 

Thus,  do  you  see  ? 
He  ate  the  dormouse ; 

Else  it  was  he. 


BEN  JONSON.  149 


"  It  is  impossible  that  anything  could  better  express  than  this, 
either  the  wild  and  practical  joking  of  the  satyrs,  or  the  action 
of  the  thing  described,  or  the  quaintness  and  fitness  of  the  images, 
or  the  melody  and  even  the  harmony,  the  intercourse,  of  the  mu- 
sical words,  one  with  another.  None  but  a  boon  companion 
with  a  very  musical  ear  could  have  written  it.  It  was  not  for 
nothing  that  Ben  lived  in  the  time  of  the  fine  old  English  compos- 
ers, Bull  and  Ford,  or  partook  his  canary  with  his  "  lov'd  Alphon- 
so,"  as  he  calls  him,  the  Signor  Ferrabosco. — A  Jar  of  Honey 
from  Mount  Hybla,  in  Ainswortlvs  Magazine,  No.  xxx.,  p.  86. 


150  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER, 

BEAUMONT,  BORN  1586 DIED  1615. 

FLETCHER,    "    1576—   "   1625. 


Poetry  of  the  higheft  order  and  of  the  loveliest  character 
abounds  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  but  so  mixed  up  with  incon- 
sistent, and  too  often,  alas!  revolting  matter,  that,  apart  from 
passages  which  do  not  enter  into  the  plan  of  this  book,  I  had  no 
alternative  but  either  to  confine  the  extracts  to  the  small  number 
which  ensue,  or  to  bring  together  a  heap  of  the  smallest  quota- 
tions,— two  or  three  lines  at  a  time.  I  thought  to  have  got  a 
good  deal  more  out  of  the  Faithful  Shepherdess,  which  I  had  not 
read  for  many  years ;  but  on  renewing  my  acquaintance  with 
it,  I  found  that  the  same  unaccountable  fascination  with  the  evil 
times  which  had  spoilt  these  two  fine  poets  in  their  other  plays, 
had  followed  its  author,  beyond  what  I  had  supposed,  even  into 
the  regions  of  Arcadia. 

Mr.  Hazlitt,  who  loved  sometimes  to  relieve  his  mistrust  by  a 
fit  of  pastoral  worship,  pronounces  the  Faithful  Shepherdess  to 
be  "  a  perpetual  feast  of  nectar'd  sweets,  where  no  crude  surfeit 
reigns."  I  wish  I  could  think  so.  There  are  both  hot  and  cold 
dishes  in  it,  which  I  would  quit  at  any  time  to  go  and  dine  with 
the  honest  lovers  of  Allan  Ramsay,  whose  Gentle  Shepherd, 
though  of  another  and  far  inferior  class  of  poetry,  I  take  upon 
the  whole  to  be  the  completest  pastoral  drama  that  ever  was 
written. 

It  is  a  pity  that  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  had  not  been  born 
earlier,  and  in  the  neighborhood  of  Shakspeare,  and  become  his 
playmates.  The  wholesome  company  of  the  juvenile  yeoman 
(like  a  greater  Sandford)  might  have  rectified  the  refined  spirits 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER  151 

of  the  young  gentlemen,  and  saved  their  Hippocrene  from  he- 
coming  ditch-water.     Even  as  it   is,  they   seem   different   men 
when  writing  in  their  own  persons,  and  following  the  taste  of  the 
town.     Compare,  for  example,  Beaumont's  exquisite  verses  on 
Melancholy   (here    printed)    with    any   one  of  their   plays ;  or 
Fletcher's  lines  entitled  An  Honest  Man's  Fortune  with  the  play 
of  the  same  name,  to  which  it  is  appended.       The  difference  is 
so  great,  and  indeed  is  discernible  to  such  an  equal  degree  in 
the  poetry  which  startles  you  in  the  plays  themselves  (as  if  two 
different  souls  were  writing  one  passage),  that  it  appears  unac- 
countable, except   on  some  principle  anterior  to  their  town  life, 
and  to  education  itself.     Little  is  known  of  either  of  their  fami- 
lies,  except    that    there    were    numerous    poets   in    both  ;     but 
Fletcher's   father  was  that  Dean  of  Peterborough  (afterwards 
Bishop  of  London)  who  behaved  with  such   unfeeling  imperti- 
nence to  the  Queen  of  Scots  in  her  last  moments,  and  who  is 
said  (as  became  such  a  man)  to  have  died  of  chagrin,  because 
Elizabeth  was  angry  at  his  marrying  a  second  time.      Was 
poetry  such  a  "  drug  "  with  "  both  their  houses  "  that  the  friends 
lost  their  respect  for  it  ?  or  was  Fletcher's  mother  some  angel  of 
a  woman — some  sequestered    Miranda  of  the  day — with  whose 
spirit  the  "  earth  "  of  the  Dean  her  husband  but  ill  accorded  ? 

Every  devout  lover  of  poetry  must  have  experienced  the  wish 
of  Coleridge,  that  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  had  written  "poems 
instead  of  tragedies."  Imagine  as  voluminous  a  set  of  the  one 
as  they  have  given  us  of  the  other !  It  would  have  been  to 
sequestered  real  life  what  Spenser  was  to  the  land  of  Faery, — a 
retreat  beyond  all  groves  and  gardens,  a  region  of  medicinal 
sweets  of  thought  and  feeling.  Nor  would  plenty  of  fable  have 
been  wanting.  What  a  loss  !  And  this, — their  birthright  with 
posterity — these  extraordinary  men  sold  for  the  mess  of  the 
loathsome  pottage  of  the  praise  and  profligacy  of  the  court  of 
James  I. 

But  let  us  blush  to  find  fault  with  them,  even  for  such  a  de- 
scent from  their  height,  while  listening  to  their  diviner  moods. 


152  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


MELANCHOLY. 

BY    BEAUMONT. 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly; 
There's  naught  in  this  life  sweet, 
Were  men  but  wise  to  see  't, 

But  only  Melancholy  ; 
O  sweetest  Melancholy  ! 

Welcome,  folded  arms  and  fixed  eyes; 
A  sigh,  that  piercing;,  mortifies  ; 
A  look  that's  fasten' d  to  the  ground  ; 
A  tongue  chain'd  up  without  a  sound. 

Fountain  heads  and  path/ess  groves, 
Places  vphich  pale  passion  loves  ;l 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  hous'd  save  bats  and  owls  ; 
A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan, 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon  : 
Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy  valley  ; 
Nothing  so  dainty  stvect  as  lovely  Melancholy.- 

2" Loiely  Melancholy."— Tradition  has  given  these  verses  to 
Beaumont,  though  they  appeared  for  the  first  time  in  a  play  of 
Fletcher's  after  the  death  of  his  friend.  In  all  probability 
Beaumont  had  partly  sketched  the  play,  and  left  the  verses  to 
be  inserted. 

I  cannot  help  thinking  that  a  couplet  has  been  lost  after  the 
words  "  bats  and  owls."  It  is  true  the  four  verses  ending; 
with  those  words  might  be  made  to  belong  to  the  preceding 
four,  as  among  the  things  "  welcomed  j"  but  the  junction  would 
be  forced,  and  the  modulation  injured.  They  may  remain,  too, 
where  they  are,  as  combining  to  suggest  the  "  sounds"  which  the 
melancholy  man  feeds  upon  ;  "  fountain-heads"  being  audible, 
"groves"  whispering,  and  the  "moonlight  walks"  being  attend. 
ed  by  the  hooting  "owl."     They  also  modulate   beautifully  in 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  153 

this  case.  Yet  these  intimations  themselves  appear  a  little  forc- 
ed ;  whereas,  supposing  a  couplet  to  be  supplied,  there  would 
be  a  distinct  reference  to  melancholy  sights,  as  well  as  sounds. 

The  conclusion  is  divine.  Indeed  the  whole  poem,  as  Hazlitt 
says,  is  "the  perfection  of  this  kind  of  writing."  Orpheus 
might  have  hung  it,  like  a  pearl,  in  the  ear  of  Proserpina.  It 
has  naturally  been  thought  to  have  suggested  the  Penseroso  to 
Milton,  and  is  more  than  worthy  to  have  done  so  ;  for  fine  as 
that  is,  it  is  still  finer.  It  is  the  concentration  of  a  hundred 
melancholies.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  one  of  his  biographical 
works,  hardly  wiih  the  accustomed  gallantry  and  good-nature 
of  the  great  novelist,  contrasted  it  with  the  "  melo-dramatic"  ab- 
stractions of  Mrs.  RadclyfFe  (then  living).  He  might  surely, 
with  more  justice,  have  opposed  it  to  the  diffuseness  and  con- 
ventional phraseology  of"  novels  in  verse." 

i  "  Places  which  pale  passion  loves." — Beaumont,  while  writing 
this  verse,  perhaps  the  finest  in  the  poem,  probably  had  in  his 
memory  that  of  Marlowe,  in  his  description  of  Tamburlaine. 

Pale  of  complexion,  wrought  in  him  with  passion. 


A  SATYR  PRESENTS  A  BASKET  OF  FRUIT  TO  THE 
FAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS. 

BT   FLETCHER. 

Here  be  grapes  whose  lusty  blood 

Is  the  learned  poet's  good ; 

Sweeter  yet  did  never  crown 

The  head  of  Bacchus ;  nuts  more  brown 

Than  the  squirrel's  teeth  that  crack  them  ; 

Deign,  oh,  fairest  fair  !  to  take  them. 

For  these  black-eyed  Dryope 

Hath  oftentimes  commanded  me 

With  my  clasped  knee  to  climb : 

See  how  well  the  lusty  time 

Hath  dec/e'd  their  rising  cheeks  in  red, 

Such  as  on  your  lips  is  spread. 


154  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER 

Here  be  berries  for  a  queen, 

Some  be  red — some  be  green  ,-3 

These  are  of  that  luscious  meat 

The  great  god  Pan  himself  doth  eat ; 

All  these,  and  what  the  woods  can  yield, 

The  hanging  mountain  or  the  field, 

I  freely  offer;  and  ere  long 

Will  bring  you  more,  more  sweet  and  strong ; 

Till  when,  humbly  leave  I  take, 

Least  the  great  Pan  do  awake 

That  sleeping  lies  in  a  deep  glade, 

Under  a  broad  beech's  shade  :4 

I  must  go,  I  must  run, 

Swifter  than  the  fiery  sun 

3  "  Some  be  red,  some  be  green." — This  verse  calls  to  mind  a  beau- 
tiful one  of  Chaucer,  in  his  description  of  a  grove  in  spring  : — 

In  which  were  oakes  great,  straight  as  a  line, 
Under  the  which  the  grass,  so  fresh  of  hue, 
Was  newly  sprung,  and  an  eight  foot  or  nine, 
Ev-e-ry  tree  well  from  his  fellow  grew, 
With  branches  broad,  laden  with  leaves  new, 
That  sprangen  out  against  the  sunny  sheen, 
Some  very  red,  and  some  a  glad  light  green. 

The  Flower  and  the  Leaf. 

Coleridge  was  fond  of  repeating  it. 

*  "  That  sleeping  lies,"  &c— Pan   was  not  to  be  waked  too  soon 
with  impunity. 

Ot>  dc/iis,  o)  -Koijiav,  to  peaapffpivov,  ov  9epi;  ayptv 
±vpioSeV  tov  Tiava  JcSoiKapes    >i  yap  an    aypn 
LaviK  i  KCKpaicws  aprravcraf  tvri  6e  m/cpos 
Kai  hi  a  "i  Spipcia  ^oXo  ttoti  ptm  /ca0»jrai. 

Theocritus,  Idyll  i.,  v.  15. 

No,  shepherd,  no  ;  we  must  not  pipe  at  noon  : 
We  must  fear  Pan,  who  sleeps  after  the  chase, 
Ready  to  start  in  snappish  bitterness 
With  quivering  nostril. 

What  a  true  picture  of  the  half-goat  divinity  ! 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  155 


A  SPOT  FOR  LOVE  TALES. 

Here  be  all  new  delights,  cool  streams  and  wells ; 
Arbors  o'ergrown  with  woodbines;  caves  and  dells  ; 
Choose  where  thou  wilt,  whilst  I  sit  by  and  sing, 
Or  gather  rushes,  to  make  man}'  a  ring 
For  thy  long  fingers  ;  tell  thee  tales  of  love  ; 
Hflw  the  pale  Phoebe,  hunting  in  a  grove, 
FWt  saw  the  boy  Endymion,  from  whose  eyes 
She  took  eternal  fire  that  never  dies  ; 
How  she  conveyed  him  softly  in  a  sleep, 
His  temples  bound  ivith  poppy,  to  the  steep 
Head  of  old  Latmus,  where  she  stoops  each  night, 
Gilding  the  mountain  with  her  brother's  light, 
To  kiss  her  sweetest. 


MORNING. 

See,  the  day  begins  to  bi'eak, 
And  the  light  shoots  like  a  streak 
Of  subtle  fire.      The  wind  blows  cold 
Wliile  the  morning  doth  unfold. 

I  have  departed  from  my  plan  for  once,  to  introduce  this  very 
small  extract,  partly  for  the  sake  of  its  beauty,  partly  to  show 
the  student  that  great  poets  do  not  confine  their  pleasant  descrip- 
tions to  images  or  feelings  pleasing  in  the  commoner  sense  of  the 
word,  but  include  such  as,  while  seeming  to  contradict,  harmo- 
nize with  them,  upon  principles  of  truth,  and  of  a  genial  and 
strenuous  sympathy.  The  "  subtle  streak  of  fire"  is  obviously 
beautiful,  but  the  addition  of  the  cold  wind  is  a  truth  welcome  to 
those  only  who  have  strength  as  well  as  delicacy  of  apprehen- 
sion,— or  rather,  that  healthy  delicacy  which  arises  from  the 
strength.  Sweet  and  wholesome,  and  to  be  welcomed,  is  the 
chill  breath  of  morning.  There  is  a  fine  epithet  for  this  kind  of 
dawn  in  the  elder  Marston's  Antonio  and  Melida  : — 


156  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

Is  not  yon  gleam  the  shuddering  morn,  that  flakes 
With  silver  tincture  the  east  verge  of  heaven ? 


THE  POWER  OF  LOVE. 

Hear,  ye  ladies  that  despise 

What  the  mighty  Love  has  done ; 
Fear  examples  and  be  wise  : 

Fair  Calisto  was  a  nun  ; 
Leda,  sailing  on  the  stream  ^ 

To  deceive  the  hopes  of  man, 
Love  accounting  but  a  dream 

Doted  on  a  silver  swan  ; 
Danae,  in  a  brazen  tower, 
Where  no  love  was,  loved  a  shower.** 

Hear,  ye  ladies  that  are  coy, 

What  the  mighty  Love  can  do, 
Fear  the  fierceness  of  the  boy : 

The  chaste  moon  he  makes  to  woo  ; 
Vesta,  kindling  holy  fires, 

Circled  round  about  with  spies, 
Never  dreaming  loose  desires, 

Doting  at  the  altar  dies  ; 
Hion  in  a  short  hour,  higher 
He  can  build,  and  once  more  fire. 

*  "  Where  no  love  was." — See    how  extremes  meet,    and    pas 
sion  writes  as  conceit  does,  in  these  repetitions  of  a  word  : — 

Where  no  love  was,  lov'd  a  shower. 

So,  still  more  emphatically,  in  the  instance  afterwards : — 

Fear  the  fierceness  of  the  boy — 

than  which  nothing  can  be  finer.     Wonder  and  earnestness  con- 
spire to  stamp  the  iteration  of  the  sound. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER.  157 


INVOCATION  TO  SLEEP. 

Sung  to  Music :  the  Emperor  Valentinian  sitting  by,  sick,  in  a 

chair. 

Care-charming  Sleep,  thou  easer  of  all  woes, — 
Brother  to  Death,  sweetly  thyself  dispose 
On  this  afflicted  prince  :  fall  like  a  cloud 
In  gentle  showers  ;  give  nothing  that  is  loud 
Or  painful  to  his  slumbers ; — easy,  sweet,6 
Aifd  as  a  purling  stream,  thou  son  of  night, 
Pass  by  his  troubled  senses  : — sing  his  pain, 
Like  hollow  murmuring  wind,  or  silver  rain  : 
Into  this  prince  gently,  oh,  gently  slide, 
And  kiss  him  into  slumbers  like  a  bride  ! 

e "  Easy,  sweet.'" — In  rhymes  like  night  and  sweet,  the  fine  ears 
of  our  ancestors  discerned  a  harmony  to  which  we  have  been 
unaccustomed.  They  perceived  the  double  e,  which  is  in  the 
vowel  i, — night  nah-eet.  There  is  an  instance  in  a  passage  in 
the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  extracted  at  page  126,  where 
the  word  bees,  as  well  as  mulberries,  and  dewberries,  is  made  to 
rhyme  with  eyes,  arise,  &c.  Indeed,  in  such  words  as  mulber- 
ries the  practice  is  still  retained,  and  e  and  i  considered  corres- 
ponding sounds  in  the  fainter  terminations  of  polysyllables  : — 
free,  company — -fiy,  company. 

Was  ever  the  last  line  of  this  invocation  surpassed  ?  But  it 
is  all  in  the  finest  tone  of  mingled  softness  and  earnestness. 
The  verses  are  probably  Fletcher's.  He  has  repeated  a  pas- 
sage of  it  in  his  poem  entitled  An  Honest  Man's  Fortune. 

Oh,  man  !  thou  image  of  thy  Maker's  good, 
What  canst  thou  fear,  when  breath'd  into  thy  blood 
His  Spirit  ;s  that  built  thee  ?     What  dull  sense 
Makes  thee  suspect,  in  need,  that  Providence 
Who  made  the  morning,  and  who  plac'd  the  light 
Guide  to  thy  labors ;  who  call'd  up  the  night, 
And  bid  her  fall  upon  thee  like  sweet  showers 
In  hollow  murmurs  to  lock  up  thy  powers  ! 

O  si  sic  omnia  ! 


158  MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER. 


MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER, 


When  about  to  speak  of  these  and  other  extraordinary  men  of 
the  days  of  Shakspeare,  the  Marstons,  Rowleys,  Massingers, 
Draytons,  &c,  including  those  noticed  already,  I  wasted  a 
good  deal  of  time  in  trying  to  find  out  how  it  was  that,  possess- 
ing, as  most  of  them  did,  such  a  pure  vein  of  poetry,  and  some- 
times saying  as  fine  things  as  himself,  they  wrote  so  much  that 
is  not  worth  reading,  sometimes  not  fit  to  be  read.  I  might  have 
considered  that,  either  from  self-love,  or  necessity,  or  both,  too 
much  writing  is  the  fault  of  all  ages  and  of  every  author. 
Even  Homer,  says  Horace,  sometimes  nods.  How  many  odes 
might  not  Horace  himself  have  spared  us  !  How  many  of  his 
latter  books,  Virgil  !  What  theology,  Dante  and  Milton  !  What 
romances,  Cervantes  !  What  Comedies,  Ariosto  !  What  trage- 
dies, Dryden  !  What  heaps  of  words,  Chaucer  and  Spenser ! 
What  Iliads,  Pope  ! 

Shakspeare's  contemporaries,  however,  appear  to  have  been  a 
singularly  careless  race  of  men,  compared  with  himself.  Could 
they  have  been  rendered  so  by  that  very  superiority  of  birth  and 
education  which  threw  them  upon  the  town,  in  the  first  instance, 
with  greater  confidence,  his  humbler  prospects  rendering  hin 
more  cautious  ?  Or  did  their  excess  of  wit  and  fancy  require 
a  counter- perfection  of  judgment,  such  as  he  only  possessed  ? 
Chapman  and  Drayton,  though  their  pens  were  among  the  pro- 
fusest  and  most  unequal,  seem  to  have  been  prudent  men  in 
conduct ;  so  in  all  probability  were  Ford  and  Webster  ;  but 
none  of  these  had  the  animal  spirits  of  the  others.  Shak- 
speare had  animal  spirits,  wit,  fancy,  judgment,  prudence  in 
money  matters,  understanding  like  Bacon,  feeling  like  Chaucer, 
mirth  like  Rabelais,  dignity  like  Milton  !  What  a  man  !  Has 
anybody  discovered  the  reason  why  he  never  noticed  a  living 


MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.  159 

contemporary,  and  but  one  who  was  dead  ?  and  this  too  in  an 
age  of  great  men,  and  when  they  were  in  the  habit  of  acknow 
ledging  the  pretensions  of  one  another.  It  could  not  have  been 
jealousy,  or  formality,  or  inability  to  perceive  merits  which  his 
own  included  ;  and  one  can  almost  as  little  believe  it  possible 
to  have  been  owing  to  a  fear  of  disconcerting  his  aristocratic 
friends,  for  they  too  were  among  the  eulogizers :  neither  can  it 
be  attributed  to  his  having  so  mooted  all  points,  as  to  end  in 
caring  for  none  ;  for  in  so  great  and  wise  a  nature,  good  nature 
must  surely  survive  everything,  both  as  a  pleasure  and  a  duty. 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  think  that  his  theatrical  manager- 
ship was  the  cause.  It  naturally  produced  a  dislike  of  pro- 
nouncing judgments  and  incurring  responsibilities.  And  yet 
he  was  not  always  a  manager  ;  nor  were  all  his  literary  friends 
playwrights.  I  think  it  probable,  from  the  style,  that  he  wrote 
the  sonnet  in  which  Spenser  is  eulogized  : — 

If  music  and  sweet  poetry  agree,  &c. 

but  this  is  doubtful ;  and  Spenser  was  not  one  of  his  dramatic 
fellows.  Did  he  see  too  many  faults  in  them  all  to  praise 
them  !  !  Certainly  the  one  great  difference  between  him  and 
them,  next  to  superiority  of  genius,  is  the  prevailing  relevancy 
of  all  he  wrote  ;  its  freedom,  however  superabundant,  from  in- 
consistency and  caprice.  But  could  he  find  nothing  to  praise  1 
Nothing  in  the  whole  contemporary  drama  ?  Nothing  in  all 
the  effusions  of  his  friends  and  brother  clubbists  of  the  Mermaid 
and  the  Triple  Tun  1 

I  take  Webster  and  Decker  to  have  been  the  two  greatest  of 
the  Shakspeare  men,  for  unstudied  genius,  next  after  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  ;  and  in  some  respects  they  surpassed  them. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  have  no  such  terror  as  Webster,  nor 
any  such  piece  of  hearty,  good,  affecting  human  clay,  as 
Decker's  "Old  Signior  Orlando  Friscobaldo."  Is  there  any 
such  man  even  in  Shakspeare  ? — any  such  exaltation  of  that 
most  delightful  of  all  things,  bonhomie  ?  Webster  sometimes 
overdoes  his  terror  ;  nay  often.  lie  not  only  riots,  he  debauches 
in   it ;  and  Decker,  full  of  heart  and   delicacy  as  he  is,   and 


t:    |j 

liiied 


qualifier  to  teach  refinement  to  the  refined,  condescends  to  an 


60  MIDDLETOxN,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER. 

astounding  coarseness.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  good  company 
saved  them  from  that,  in  words.  In  spirit  they  are  full  of  it. 
But  Decker  never  mixes  up  (at  least  not  as  far  as  I  can  remem- 
ber) any  such  revolting  and  impossible  contradictions  in  the 
same  character  as  they  do.  Neither  does  he  bring  a  doubt  on 
his  virtue  by  exaggerating  them.  He  believes  heartily  in  what 
he  does  believe,  and  you  love  him  in  consequence.  It  was  he 
that  wrote  that  character,  the  piety  of  which  has  been  pro- 
nounced equal  to  its  boldness  : — 

The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  was  a  sufferer ; 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit; 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breath'd. 

His  universal  sympathy  enabled  him  to  strike  out  that  audacious 
and  happy  simile,  "  untameable  as  pes"  which  Homer  would 
have  admired,  though  it  is  "fit  to  make  poetasters  shudder.  The 
poetaster,  had  Decker  offered  to  make  him  a  present  of  it,  would 
have  been  afraid  of  being  taken  for  a  fly  himself.  Images  are 
either  grand  in  themselves,  or  for  the  thought  and  feeling  that 
accompany  them.  This  has  all  the  greatness  of  Nature's 
"  equal  eye."  You  may  see  how  truly  Decker  felt  it  to  be  of 
this  kind,  by  the  company  in  which  he  has  placed  it ;  and  there 
is  a  consummation  of  propriety  in  its  wildness,  for  he  is  speaking 
of  lunatics : — 

There  are  of  madmen,  as  there  are  of  tame, 

All  humor'd  not  alike.     We  have  here  some 

So  apish  and  fantastic,  will  play  with  a  feather; 

And  though  'twould  grieve  a  soul  to  see  God's  image 

So  blemish'd  and  defaced,  yet  do  they  act 

Such  antic  and  such  pretty  lunacies, 

That,  spite  of  sorrow,  they  will  make  you  smile. 

Others  again  we  have  like  hungry  lions, 

Fierce  as  wild  bulls,  untameable  as  flies. 

Middleton  partakes  of  the  poetry  and  sweetness  of  Decker, 
but  not  to  the  same  height  ;  and  he  talks  more  at  random.  You 
hardly  know  what  to  make  of  the  dialogue  or  stories  of  some  of 
Hs  plays.     But  he  has  more  fancy  ;   and  there  is  one  characte 


M1DDLET0N,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.  161 

of  his  (De  Flores  in  the  "  Changeling")  which,  for  effect  at  once 
tragical,  probable,  and  poetical,  surpasses  anything  I  know  of 
in  the  drama  of  domestic  life.  Middleton  has  the  honor  of 
having  furnished  part  of  the  witch  poetry  to  Macbeth,  and  of 
being  conjoined  with  it  also  in  the  powerful  and  beautiful  music 
of  Locke. 

From  Massinger,  Ford,  and  the  others  (as  far  as  I  have  met 
with  them,  and  apart  from  the  connexion  of  Massinger's  name 
with  Decker),  I  could  find  nothing  to  extract  of  a  nature  to  suit 
this  particular  volume,  and  of  equal  height  with  its  contents. 
It  is  proper  to  state,  however,  that  I  have  only  glanced  through 
their  works :  for  though  no  easily  daunted  reader,  I  never  read 
an  entire  play  either  of  Ford  or  Massinger.  They  repel  me 
with  the  conventional  tendencies  of  their  style,  and  their  unnatu- 
ral plots  and  characters.  Ford,  however,  is  elegant  and 
thoughtful ;  and  Massinger  has  passion,  though  (as  far  as  I 
know)  not  in  a  generous  shape.  With  these  two  writers  began 
that  prosaical  part  of  the  corruption  of  dramatic  style  (merging 
passionate  language  into  conventional)  which  came  to  its  head 
in  Shirley. 

Donusa.  What  magic  hath  transform' d  me  from  myself? 
Where  is  my  virgin  pride  1  how  have  I  lost 
My  boasted  freedom .'  what  new  fire  burns  up 
My  scorch'd  entrails  !  !  what  unknown  desires 
Invade,  and  take  possession  of  my  soul  ? 

Maasinger's  Renegado. 

Hialas.  To  this  union 

The  good  of  both  the  Church  and  Commonwealth 
Invite  you. 

Durham.  To  this  unity,  a  mystery 
Of  providence  points  out  a  greater  blessing 
For  both  these  nations,  than  our  human  wisdom 
Can  search  into.     King  Henry  hath  a  daughter, 
The  Princess  Margaret.     I  need  not  urge,  &c. 

Ford's  Perkin  Warheck. 

Both  tnese  passages  are  the  first  I  came  to,  on  dipping  into 
their  works.  One  might  fancy  one's  self  reading  Cato  or  the 
Grecian  Daughter,  instead  of  men  who  had  breathed  the  air  of 
the  days  of  Shakspeare. 

12 


162  MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER. 

Massinger  was  joint  author  with  Decker,  of  the  play  from 
which  the  scene  of  the  lady  and  the  angel  is  taken ;  but  nobody 
who  knows  the  style  of  the  two  men  can  doubt  for  a  moment  to 
which  it  belongs.  I  have,  therefore,  without  hesitation  assigned 
it  according  to  the  opinion  expressed  by  Mr.  Lamb. 


FLIGHT  OF  WITCHES. 

Scene,  a  Field.     Enter  Hecate,  Stadlin,  Hoppo,  and  other  Witches. 
Firestone  in  the  background. 

Hec.  The  moon's  a  gallant ;  see  how  brisk  she  rides ! 

Stad.  Here  's  a  rich  evening,  Hecate. 

Hec.  Ay,  is 't  not,  wenches, 

To  take  a  journey  of  five  thousand  miles  ? 

Hop.  0  't  will  be  precious  ! 

Heard  you  the  owl  yet  ? 

Stad.  Briefly  in  the  copse, 

As  we  came  through  now. 

Hec.  'T  is  high  time  for  us  then 

Stad.   There  was  a  bat  hung  at  my  lips  three  times, 
As  we  came  through  the  woods,  and  drank  her  fill : 
Old  Puckle  saw  her. 

Hec.  You  are  fortunate  stiii ; 

The  very  screech-owl  lights  upon  your  shoulder, 
And  woos  you  like  a  pigeon.     Are  you  furnished  ? 
Have  you  your  ointments  ? 

Stad..  All. 

Hec.  Prepare  to  flight  then  ; 

I'll  overtake  you  swiftly. 

Stad.  Hie  thee,  Hecate ; 

We  shall  be  up  betimes. 

Hec.  I'll  reach  you  quickly. 

[Exeunt  all  the  Witches  except  Hecate. 

Fire.  They  are  all  going  a  birding  to-night :  they  talk  of  fowls  i'  th'  air 
that  fly  by  day  ;  I  am  sure  they  '11  be  a  company  of  foul  sluts  there  to-night : 
if  we  have  not  mortality  after  't,  I  '11  be  hanged,  for  they  are  able  to  putrefy 
it,  to  infect  a  whole  region      She  spies  me  now. 

Hec.  What,  Firestone,  our  sweet  son  ? 

Fire  A  little  sweeter  than  some  of  you,  or  a  dunghill  were  too  good  for 
me.  [Aside. 

Hec    How  much  hast  here  ? 


MTDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER  163 

Fire.  Nineteen,  and  all  brave  plump  ones,  besides 

six  lizards  and  three  serpentine  eggs. 

Hec.  Dear  and  sweet  boy  !  what  herbs  hast  thou  ? 

Fire.  I  have  some  marmartin  and  mandragon. 

Hec.   Marmaritin  and  mandragora,  thou  wouldst  say. 

Fire.  Here's  panax  too— I  thank  thee — my  pan  aches  I'm  sure,  with 
kneeling  down  to  cut  'em. 

Hec.  And  selago, 

Hedge-hysop  too  ;  how  near  he  goes  my  cuttings  ! 
Were  they  all  cropt  by  moonlight  ? 

Fire.  Every  blade  of  'em, 

Or  I'm  a  moon-calf,  mother. 

Hec.  Hie  thee  home  with  'em  : 

Look  well  to  the  house  to-night ;  I'm  for  aloft. 

Fire.  Aloft,  quoth  you  ?  I  would  you  would  break  your  neck  once,  that 
J  might  have  all  quickly  !  [Aside.]— Hark,  hark,  mother  !  they  are  above 
the  steeple  already,  flying  over  your  head  with  a  noise  of  musicians. 

Hec.  They  're  they  indeed.     Help,  help  me  ;  I'm  too  late  else. 

SONG  ABOVE. 

Come  away,  come  away, 
Hecate,  Hecate,  come  away. 
Hec.    I  come,  I  come,  I  come,  I  come, 
With  all  the  speed  I  may. 
Where's  Stadlin  ? 
[Voice  above.]  Here. 

Hec.    Where's  Puckle  ? 
[Voice  above.]  Here. 

And  Hoppo  too,  and  Hellwain  too  ; 
We  lack  but  you,  we  lack  but  you  ; 
Come  away,  make  up  the  count. 
Hec.  I  will  but  'noint  and  then  I  mount. 

[A  spirit  like  a  cat  descends 
[Voict  above.]   There's  one  comes  down  to  fetch  his  dues, 
A  kiss,  a  coll,  a  sip  of  blood  ; 
And  why  thou  stay'st  so  Ions,  I  muse, 
Since  the  air  's  so  sweet  and  good  ? 
Hec.    O,  art  thou  come  ?    what  news,  what  news  ? 
Spirit.    All  goes  still  to  our  delight, 

Either  come,  or  else  refuse. 
Hec    Now  I'm  furnished  for  the  flight. 
Fire.   Hark,  hark,  the  cat  rings  a  brave  treble  in  her  own  language  ! 
[Hec.  going  up.]   Now  I  go,  now  I  fly, 

Malkin  my  sweet  spirit  and  I. 
O  what  a  dainty  pleasure  't  is 


164  MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER. 

To  ride  in  the  air 
When  the  moon  shines  fair, 
And  sing  and  dance,  and  toy  and  kiss  ! 
Over  woods,  high  rocks  and  mountains, 
Over  seas,  our  mistress'  fountains ; 
Ov<>r  steeples,  towers,  and  turrets, 
We  fly  by  night,  'mongst  troops  of  spirits : 
No  ring  of  bells  to  our  ears  sounds ; 
No  howls  of  wolves,  no  yelps  of  hounds ; 
No,  not  the  noise  of  water's  breach, 
Or  cannon's  throat  our  height  can  reach. 
[Voice  above.']  No  ring  of  bells,  &c. 

Fire.  Well,  mother,  I  thank  your  kindness :  you  must  be  gambolling  i' 
th'  air,  and  leave  me  to  walk  here,  like  a  fool  and  a  mortal. 

MlDDLETON. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  LADY  AND  THE  ANGEL. 

An  Angel,  in  the  guise  of  a  Page,  attends  on  Dorothea. 

Dor.  My  book  and  taper 

Ang.  Here,  most  holy  mistress. 

Dor.  Thy  voice  sends  forth  such  music,  that  I  never 
Was  ravish'd  with  a  more  celestial  sound. 
Were  every  servant  in  the  world  like  thee, 
So  full  of  goodness,  angels  would  come  down 
To  dwell  with  us  :  thy  name  is  Angelo, 
And  like  that  name  thou  art.     Get  thee  to  rest; 
Thy  youth  with  too  much  watching  is  opprest. 

Ang.  No,  my  dear  lady  ;  I  could  weary  stars, 
And  force  the  wakeful  moon  to  lose  her  eyes, 
By  my  late  watching,  but  to  wait  on  you. 
When  at  your  prayers  you  kneel  before  the  altar, 
Methinks  I'm  singing  with  some  quire  in  heaven, 
So  blest  I  hold  me  in  your  company : 
Therefore,  my  most  lov'd  mistress,  do  not  bid 
Your  boy,  so  serviceable,  to  get  hence  : 
For  then  you  break  his  heart 

Dor.  Be  nigh  me  still  then. 

In  golden  letters  down  I'll  set  that  day 
Which  gave  thee  to  me.     Little  did  I  hope 
To  meet  such  worlds  of  comfort  in  thyself, 


MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.  165 


This  little,  pretty  body,  when  I,  coming 
Forth  of  the  temple,  heard  my  beggar-boy, 
My  sweet-faced,  godly  beggar-boy,  crave  an  alms, 
Which  with  glad  hand  I  gave,  with  lucky  hand ! 
And  when  I  took  thee  home,  my  most  chaste  bosom 
Methought  was  fill'd  with  no  hot  wanton  fire, 
But  with  a  holy  flame,  mounting  since  higher, 
On  wings  of  cherubims,  than  it  did  before. 

Ang.  Proud  am  I,  that  my  lady's  modest  eye 
So  likes  so  poor  a  servant. 

Dor.  I  have  offer' d 

Handfuls  of  gold  but  to  behold  thy  parents. 
I  would  leave  kingdoms,  were  I  queen  of  some 
To  dwell  with  thy  good  father ;  for,  the  son 
Bewitching  me  so  deeply  with  his  presence, 
He  that  got  him  must  do  it  ten  times  more. 
I  pray  thee,  my  sweet  boy,  show  me  thy  parents ; 
Be  not  asham'd. 

Ang.  I  am  not :  I  did  never 

Know  who  my  mother  was  ;  but  by  yon  palace, 
Fill'd  with  bright  heavenly  courts,  I  dare  assure  you, 
And  pawn  these  eyes  upon  it,  and  this  hand, 
My  father  is  in  heaven ;  and,  pretty  mistress, 
If  your  illustrious  hour-glass  spend  his  sand, 
No  worse  than  yet  it  does,  upon  my  life. 
You  and  I  both  shall  meet  my  father  there, 
And  he  shall  bid  you  welcome  ! 

Dor.  O  blessed  day ! 

We  all  long  to  be  there,  but  lose  the  way. 


[Exeunt 


Dorothea  is  executed;  and  the  Angel  visits  Theophilus,  the  Judge 

that  condemned  her. 

Theoph.  (alone)  This  Christian  slut  was  well, 

A  pretty  one ;  but  let  such  horror  follow 
The  next  I  feed  with  torments,  that  when  Rome 
Shall  hear  it,  her  foundation  at  the  sound 
May  feel  an  earthquake.     How  now  ?     (Music.) 

Ang.  Are  you  amazed,  sir  ? 

So  great  a  Roman  spirit,  and  doth  it  tremble  ? 

Theoph.  How  cam'st  thou  in  ?  to  whom  thy  business? 

Ang.  To  you. 
I  had  a  mistress,  late  sent  hence  by  you 
Upon  a  bloody  errand  ;  you  entreated, 
That,  when  she  came  into  that  blessed  garden 


1G6  MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER. 

Whither  she  knew  she  went,  and  where,  now  happy, 
She  feeds  upon  all  joy,  she  would  send  to  you 
Some  of  tnat  garden  fruit  and  flowers;  which  here, 
To  have  her  promise  sav'd,  are  brought  by  me. 

Theoph.  Cannot  I  see  this  garden  ? 

Ang.  Yes,  if  the  master 

Will  give  you  entrance.  (He  vanishes.) 

Theoph.  'Tis  a  tempting  fruit, 

And  the  most  bright-cheek'd  child  I  ever  view'd ; 
Sweet-smelling,  goodly  fruit.     What  flowers  are  these  i 
In  Dioclesian's  gardens,  the  most  beauteous 
Compar'd  with  these  are  weeds :  is  it  not  February, 
The  second  day  she  died  ?  frost,  ice,  and  snow, 
Hang  on  the  beard  of  winter :  where's  the  sun 
That  gilds  this  summer  ?  pretty,  sweet  boy,  say, 
In  what  country  shall  a  man  find  this  garden  ? — 
My  delicate  boy, — gone  !  vanish'd  !  within  there, 
Julianus !     Geta ! 

Both.  My  lord. 

Theoph.  Are  my  gates  shut  ? 

Geta.  And  guarded. 

Theoph.  Saw  you  not 

A  boy  ? 

Jul.  Where  ? 

Theoph.  Here  he  enter'd,  a  young  lad  ; 

A  thousand  blessings  danc'd  upon  his  eyes  ; 
A  smooth-fac'd  glorious  thing,  that  brought  this  basket. 

Geta.  No,  sir. 

Theoph.  Away !  but  be  in  "each,  if  my  voice  calls  you. 

Decker. 


LADIES  DANCING. 


A  fine  sweet  earthquake,  gently  mov'd 
By  the  soft  wind  of  whispering  silks. 

The  same. 


MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.  167 


APRIL  AND  WOMEN'S  TEARS. 

Trust  not  a  woman  when  she  cries, 
For  she'll  pump  water  from  her  eyes 
With  a  wet  finger,  and  in  faster  showers 
Than  April  when  he  rains  down  flowers. 

The  same. 


DEATH. 

There's  a  lean  fellow  beats  all  conquerors. 

The  same. 


PATIENCE. 

Duke.  What  comfort  do  you  find  in  being  so  calm  ? 

Candido.   That  which  green  wounds  receive  from  sovereign  balm. 
Patience,  my  lord  !  why,  'tis  the  soul  of  peace  ; 
Of  all  the  virtues  't  is  nearest  kin  to  heaven  ; 
It  makes  men  look  like  gods.     The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  was  a  sufferer, 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit, 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breath'd. 
The  stock  of  patience  then  cannot  be  poor ; 
All  it  desires,  it  has  ;  what  award  more  ? 
It  is  the  greatest  enemy  to  law 
That  can  be,  for  it  doth  embrace  all  wrongs, 
And  so  chains  up  lawyer's  and  women's  tongues : 
'  T  is  the  perpetual  prisoner's  liberty, 
His  walks  and  orchards :  't  is  the  bond-slave's  freedom, 
And  makes  him  seem  proud  of  his  iron  chain, 
As  though  he  wore  it  more  for  state  than  pain  : 
It  is  the  beggar's  music,  and  thus  sings, — 


168  MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER. 

Although  their  bodies  beg,  their  souls  are  kings. 
0,  my  dread  liege  !  it  is  the  sap  of  bliss, 
Bears  us  aloft,  makes  men  and  angels  kiss  ; 
And  last  of  all,  to  end  a  household  strife, 
It  is  the  honey  'gainst  a  waspish  wife. 


The  same. 

I  had  a  doubt  whether  to  put  this  exquisite  passage  into  the 
present  volume,  or  to  reserve  it  for  one  of  Contemplative  poetry  ; 
but  the  imagination,  which  few  will  lot  think  predominant  in  it, 
together  with  a  great  admiration  of  the  sentiments,  of  the 
thoughtful,  good-natured  alternation  of  jest  and  earnest,  and  of 
the  sweetness  of  the  versification,  increased  by  a  certain  wild 
mixture  of  rhyme  and  blank  verse,  determined  me  to  indulge 
the  impulse.  Perhaps  Decker,  who  had  experienced  the  worst 
troubles  of  poverty,  not  excepting  loss  of  liberty,  drew  his  pa- 
tient man  from  himself,  half-jesting  over  the  portrait,  in  order  to 
reconcile  his  praises  of  the  virtue  in  the  abstract,  with  a  modest 
sense  of  it  in  his  own  person.  To  the  strain  in  it  of  a  "  higher 
mood,"  I  cannot  but  append  what  Mr.  Hazlitt  has  said  in  his 
Lectures  on  the  Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth  (Temple- 
man's  edition,  p.  21).  "There  have  been  persons  who,  being 
sceptics  as  to  the  divine  mission  of  Christ,  have  taken  an  unac- 
countable prejudice  to  his  doctrines,  and  have  been  disposed  to 
deny  the  merit  of  his  character  ;  but  this  was  not  the  feeling  of 
the  great  men  in  the  age  of  Elizabeth  (whatever  might  be  their 
belief),  one  of  whom  says  of  him,  with  a  boldness  equal  to  its 
piety,  '  The  best  of  men,'  "  &c.  (Here  the  lecturer  quotes  the 
verses  alluded  to  and  adds),  "  This  was  honest  old  Decker ;  and 
the  lines  ought  to  embalm  his  memory  to  every  one  who  has  a 
sense  either  of  religion,  or  philosophy,  or  humanity,  or  true 
genius." 


A  WICKED  DREAM. 

Vittoria  Corombona.  To  pass  away  the  time  I  '11  tell  your  grace 
A  dream  I  had  last  night. 


MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.  169 


Brachiano.  Most  wishedly. 

Pit.  Cor.  A  foolish  idle  dream, 
Methought  I  walk'd,  about  the  mid  of  night, 
Into  a  church-yard,  where  a  goodly  yew-tree 
Spread  her  large  root  in  ground.     Under  that  yew, 
As  I  sat  sadly  leaning  on  a  grave 
Checquer'd  with  cross  sticks,  there  came  stealing  in 
Your  duchess  and  my  husband  ;  one  of  them 
A  pick-axe  bore,  tlv  other  a  rusty  spade, 
And  in  rough  terms  they  'gan  to  challenge  me 
About  this  yew. 

Brack.  That  tree  ? 

Pit.  Cor.  This  harmless  yew. 

They  told  me  my  intent  was  to  root  up 
That  well-known  yew,  and  plant  i'  th'  stead  of  it 
A  wither'd  black-thorn  :  and  for  that  they  vow'd 
To  bury  me  alive.     My  husband  straight 
With  pick-axe  'gan  to  dig  ;  and  your  fell  duchess 
With  shovel,  like  a  fury,  voided  out 
The  earth,  and  scattered  bones :  Lord,  how,  methought, 
I  trembled,  and  yet  for  all  this  terror 
I  could  not  pray. 

Flamineo.  (aside.)  No  ;  the  devil  was  in  your  dream. 

Pit.  Cor.  When  to  my  rescue  there  arose,  methought 
A  whirlwind,  which  let  fall  a  massy  arm, 
From  that  strong  plant  ; 

And  both  were  struck  dead  by  that  sacred  yew, 
In  that  base  shallow  grave  which  was  their  due. 

Flamineo.  (aside.)  Excellent  devil  '  she  hath  taught  him  in  a  dream 
To  make  away  his  duchess  and  her  husband 

Webster. 


NATURAL  DEATH. 

0,  thou  soft  natural  death,  that  art  joint  twin 
To  sweetest  slumber  !  no  rough-bearded  comet 
Stares  on  thy  mild  departure  ;  the.  dull  owl 
Beats  not  against  thy  casement ;  the  hoarse  wolf 
Scents  not  thy  carrion  :  pity  winds  thy  corse, 
Whilst  horror  waits  on  princes. 

The  same 


170  M1DDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER. 


FUNERAL  DIRGE. 
(Sung  by  a  Mother  over  her  Son.) 

Call  for  the  robin  red-breast  and  the  wren, 

Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover, 

And  with  leaves  of  flowers  do  cover 
The  friendless  bodies  ofunburied  men. 

Call  unto  his  funeral  dole 

The  ant,  the  field  mouse,  and  the  mole, 
To  raise  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him  warm  ; 
And  when  gay  tombs  are  robb'd,  sustain  no  harm  : 
But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that 's  foe  to  men, 
For  with  his  nails  he  '11  dig  them  up  again. 

The  same. 

"  I  never  saw,"  says  Lamb,  "  anything  like  this  dirge,  except 
the  ditty  which  reminds  Ferdinand  of  his  drowned  father  in  the 
Tempest.  That  is  of  the  water,  watery  ;  so  this  is  of  the  earth, 
eartny.  Both  have  that  intenseness  of  feeling  which  seems  to 
resolve  itself  into  the  elements  which  it  contemplates." — Dra- 
matic Specimens,  Moxon's  edition,  vol.  i.,  p.  251. 


DISSIMULATION. 

• 

Be  not  cunning; 
For  those  whose  faces  do  belie  their  hearts 
Are  witches  ere  they  arrive  at  twenty  years, 
And  give  the  devil  suck. 

The  same. 


MIDDLETON,  DECKER,  AND  WEBSTER.  Ill 


BEAUTEOUS  MORAL  EXAMPLE. 

Her  I  hold 
My  honorable  pattern  ;  one  whose  mind 
Appears  more  like  a  ceremonious  chapel 
Full  of  sweet  music,  than  a  thronging  presence. 

The  same. 


UNLOVELINESS  OF  FROWNING. 

Cupid  sets  a  crown 

Upon  those  lovely  tresses 
O,  spoil  not  with  a  frown, 

What  he  so  sweetly  dresses  ! 

The  same. 


172  MILTON. 


MILTON, 

BORN,   1608, DIED,  1674. 


It  is  difficult  to  know  what  to  do  with  some  of  the  finest  passages 
in  Milton's  great  poem.  To  treat  the  objectionable  points  of 
their  story  as  mythological,  might  be  thought  irreverent  to  opi- 
nion ;  and  to  look  upon  them  in  the  light  in  which  he  at  first 
wished  us  to  regard  them  (for  he  is  understood  to  have  changed 
his  own  opinions  of  it),  involves  so  much  irreverence  towards  the 
greatest  of  beings,  that  it  is  painful  to  seem  to  give  them  counte- 
nance. The  difficulty  is  increased  in  a  volume  of  the  present 
kind,  which  is  intended  to  give  the  reader  no  perplexity,  except 
to  know  what  to  admire  most.  I  have  therefore  thought  it  best 
to  confine  the  extracts  from  Paradise  Lost  to  unconnected  pas- 
sages ;  and  the  entire  ones  to  those  poems  which  he  wrote  when 
a  happy  youth,  undegenerated  into  superstition.  The  former 
will  still  include  his  noblest  flights  of  imagination :  the  rest  are 
ever  fresh,  true,  and  delightful. 

Milton  was  a  very  great  poet,  second  only  (if  second)  to  the 
very  greatest,  such  as  Dante  and  Shakspeare  ;  and,  like  all 
great  poets,  equal  to  them  in  particular  instances.  He  had  no 
pretensions  to  Shakspeare's  universality ;  his  wit  is  dreary ; 
and  (in  general)  he  had  not  the  faith  in  things  that  Homer  and 
Dante  had,  apart  from  the  intervention  of  words.  He  could  not 
let  them  speak  for  themselves  without  helping  them  with  his 
learning.  In  all  he  did,  after  a  certain  period  of  youth  (not  to 
speak  it  irreverently),  something  of  the  schoolmaster  is  visible  ; 
and  a  gloomy  religious  creed  removes  him  still  farther  from  the 
universal  gratitude  and  delight  of  mankind.  He  is  understood, 
however,  as  I  have  just  intimated,  to  have  given  this  up  before 
he  died.     He  had  then  run  the  circle  of  his  knowledge,  and 


MILTON.  173 


probably  come  round  to  the  wiser,  more  cheerful,  and  more  po- 
etical beliefs  of  his  childhood. 

In  this  respect,  Allegro  and  Penseroso  are  the  happiest  of  his 
productions ;  and  in  none  is  the  poetical  habit  of  mind  more 
abundantly  visible.  They  ought  to  precede  the  Lycidas  (not 
unhurt  with  theology)  in  the  modern  editions  of  his  works,  as 
they  did  in  the  collection  of  minor  poems  made  by  himself. 
Paradise  Lost  is  a  study  for  imagination  and  elaborate  musical 
structure.  Take  almost  any  passage,  and  a  lecture  might  be 
read  from  it  on  contrasts  and  pauses,  and  other  parts  of  metrical 
harmony  ;  while  almost  every  word  has  its  higher  poetical  mean- 
ing and  intensity  ;  but  all  is  accompanied  with  a  certain  oppres- 
siveness of  ambitious  and  conscious  power.  In  the  Allegro  and 
Penseroso,  &c,  he  is  in  better  spirits  with  all  about  him  ;  his 
eyes  had  not  grown  dim,  nor  his  soul  been  forced  inwards  by  disap- 
pointment into  a  proud  self-esteem,  which  he  narrowly  escaped 
erecting  into  self-worship.  He  loves  nature,  not  for  the  power 
he  can  get  out  of  it,  but  for  the  pleasure  it  affords  him  ;  he  is  at 
peace  with  town  as  well  as  country,  with  courts  and  cathedral- 
windows  ;  goes  to  the  play  and  laughs ;  to  the  village-green 
and  dances  :  and  his  study  is  placed,  not  in  the  Old  Jewry,  but 
in  an  airy  tower,  from  whence  he  good-naturedly  hopes  that  his 
candle — I  beg  pardon,  his  "  lamp,"  for  he  was  a  scholar  from 
the  first,  though  not  a  Puritan — maybe  "seen"  by  others.  His 
mirth,  it.  is  true,  is  not  excessively  merry.  It  is,  as  Warton 
says,  the  "  dignity  of  mirth  ;"  but  it  is  happy,  and  that  is  all  that 
is  to  be  desired.  The  mode  is  not  to  be  dictated  by  the  mode  of 
others  ;  nor  would  it  be  so  interesting  if  it  were.  The  more  a 
man  is  himself  the  better,  provided  he  add  a  variation  to  the 
stock  of  comfort,  and  not  of  sullenness.  Milton  was  born  in  a 
time  of  great  changes  ;  and  in  the  order  of  events  and  the 
working  of  good  out  of  ill,  we  are  bound  to  be  grateful  to  what 
was  of  a  mixed  nature  in  himself,  without  arrogating  for  him  that 
exemption  from  the  mixture  which  belongs  to  no  man.  But  upon 
the  same  principle  on  which  nature  herself  loves  joy  better  than 
grief,  health  than  disease,  and  a  general  amount  of  welfare  than  the 
reverse  (urging  men  towards  it  where  itdoes  not  prevail,  and  mak- 
ing many  a  form  of  discontent  itself  but  a  mode  of  pleasure  and 


174  MILTON. 


self-esteem),  so  Milton's  great  poem  never  has  been,  and  never  can 
be  popular  (sectarianism  apart)  compared  with  his  minor  ones ; 
nor  does  it,  in  the  very  highest  sense  of  popularity,  deserve  to 
be.  It  does  not  work  out  the  very  piety  it  proposes ;  and  the 
piety  which  it  does  propose  wants  the  highest  piety  of  an  intelli- 
gible charity  and  reliance.  Hence  a  secret  preference  for  his 
minor  poems  among  many  of  the  truest  and  selectest  admirers 
of  Paradise  Lost, — perhaps  with  all  who  do  not  admire  power  in 
any  shape  above  truth  in  the  best ;  hence  Warton's  fond  edition 
of  them,  delightful  for  its  luxurious  heap  of  notes  and  parallel 
passages  ;  and  hence  the  pleasure  of  being  able  to  extract  the 
finest  of  them,  without  misgiving,  into  a  volume  like  the  present. 


SATAN'S  RECOVERY  FROM  HIS  DOWNFALL. 

He  scarce  had  ceas'd,  when  the  superior  Fiend 

Was  moving  toward  the  shore,  his  ponderous  shield 

Behind  him  cast;  the  broad  circumference 

Hung  on  his  shoulders  like  the  moon,  whose  orb 

Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist  views 

At  evening  from  the  top  of  Fesoli 

Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands, 

Rivers  or  mountains  in  her  spotty  globe. 

His  spear,  to  equal  which  the  tallest  pine 

Hewn  on  Norwegian  hills,  to  be  the  mast 

Of  some  great  ammiral,  were  but  a  wand, 

He  walk'd  with,  to  support  uneasy  steps 

Over  the  burning  marie,  not  like  those  steps 

On  Heaven's  azure  ;  and  the  torrid  clime 

Smote  on  him  sore  besides,  vaulted  with  fire : 

Nathless  he  so  endur'd,  till  on  the  beach 

Of  that  inflamed  sea  he  stood,  and  call'd, 

His  legions,  angel  forms,  who  lay  entranc'd 

Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strow  the  brooks 

In  Vallombrosa,  where  the  Etrurian  shades, 

High  over-arch' d,  embower  ;  or  scatter'd  sedge 

Afloat,  when  with  fierce  winds  Orion  arm'd 

Hath  vex'd  the  Red  Sea  coast,  whose  waves  o'erthrew 

Busiris  and  his  Memphian  Chivalry, 

While  with  perfidious  hatred  they  pursued 

The  sojourners  of  Goshen,  who  beheld 

From  the  safe  shore  their  floating  carcasses 


MILTON.  175 


And  broken  chariot  wheels  :    so  thick  bestrown, 
Abject  and  lost  lay  these,  covering  the  flood, 
Under  ment  of  their  hideous  change. 

He  calVd  so  loud,  that  all  the  hollow  deep 
Of  Hell  resounded.     Princes,  Potentates, 

dors,  the  flower  of  Heaven,  once  yours,  now  lost, 
If  such  astonishment  as  this  can  seize 
Eternal  Spirits  ;  or  have  ye  chosen  this  place 
After  the  toil  of  battle  to  repose 
Your  wearied  virtue,  for  the  ease  you  find 
To  slumber  here,  as  in  the  vales  of  Heaven  ? 
Or  in  this  abject  posture  have  ye  sworn 
To  adore  the  conqueror  ?  who  now  beholds 
Cherub  and  Seraph  rolling  in  the  flood, 
With  scatter'd  arms  and  ensigns ;  till  anon 
His  swift  pursuers  from  heaven-gates  discern 
The  advantage,  and,  descending,  tread  us  down, 
Thus  drooping,  or  with  linked  thunderbolts 
Transfix  us  to  the  bottom  of  this  gulf. 
Awake,  arise,  or  be  for  ever  fallen! 


THE  FALLEN  ANGELS  GATHERED  AGAIN  TO  WAR. 

All  these  and  more  came  flocking  ;  but  with  looks 

Downcast  and  damp  ;  yet  such  wherein  appear'd 

Obscure,  some  glimpse  of  joy,  to  have  found  their  chief 

Not  in  despair ;  which  on  his  countenance  cast 

Like  doubtful  hue  ;  but  he,  his  wonted  pride 

Soo  i  recollecting,  with  high  words,  that  bore 

Semblance  of  worth,  not  substance,  gently  rais'd 

Their  fainting  courage,  and  dispell'd  their  fears. 

Then  straight  commands,  that  at  the  warlike  sound 

Of  trumpets  loud  and  clarions  be  uprear'd 

His  mighty  standard:  that  proud  honor  claim'd 

Azazel  as  his  right,  a  cherub  tall ; 

Who  forthwith  from  the  glittering  staff  unfurl'd 

The  imperial  ensign  ;  which,  full  high  advanc'd. 

Shone  like  a  meteor  streaming  to  the  wind, 

With  gems  and  golden  Lustre  rich  emblaz'd, 

Seraphic  arms  and  trophies;  all  the  while 

So-norous  metal  blowing  martial  sounds  : 

At  which  the  universal  host  up-sent 


76  MILTON. 


A  shout,  that  tore  Hell's  concave,  and  beyond 
Frighted  the  reign  of  Chaos  and  old  Night. 
All  in  a  moment  through  the  gloom  were  seen 
Ten  thousand  banners  rise  into  the  air 
With  orient  colors  waving :  with  them  rose 
A  forest  huge  of  spears  ;  and  thronging  helms 
Appear'd,  and  serried  shields,  in  thick  array 
Of  depth  immeasurable  :  anon  they  move 
In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood 
Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders  ;  such  as  rais'd 
To  height  of  noblest  temper  heroes  old 
Arming  to  battle  ;  and  instead  of  rage 
Deliberate  valor  breath'd,  firm  and  unmov'd 
With  dread  of  death  to  flight  or  foul  retreat, 
Nor  wanting  power  to  mitigate  and  swage 
With  solemn  touches  troubled  thoughts,  and  chase 
Anguish,  and  doubt,  and  fear,  and  sorrow,  and  pain, 
From  mortal  or  immortal  minds.     Thus  they 
Breathing  united  force,  with  fixed  thought, 
Jlfov'd  on  in  silence  to  soft  pipes,  that  charnCd 
Their  painful  steps  o'er  the  burnt  soil :  and  now 
Advanc'd  in  view  they  stand,  a  horrid  front 
Of  dreadful  length  and  dazzling  arms,  in  guise 
Of  warriors  old  with  order'd  spear  and  shield  ; 
Awaiting  what  command  their  mighty  chief 
Had  to  impose  :  he  through  the  armed  files 
Darts  his  experienc'd  eye,  and  soon  traverse 
The  whole  battalion  views ;  their  order  due  ; 
Their  visages  and  stature  as  of  gods  ; 
Their  number  last  he  sums.     And  now  his  heart 
Distends  with  pride,  and  hardening  in  his  strength 
Glories:  for  never,  since  created  man, 
Met  such  embodied  force,  as  nam'd  with  these 
Could  merit  more  than  that  small  infantry 
Warr'd  on  by  cranes  ;  though  all  the  giant  brood 
Of  Phlegra  with  the  heroic  race  were  join'd 
That  fought  at  Thebes  and  Ilium,  on  each  side 
Mix'd  with  auxiliar  gods  ;  and  what  resounds 
In  fable  or  romance  of  Uther's  son 
Begirt  with  British  and  Armoric  knights  ; 
And  all  who  since,  baptiz'd  or  infidel, 
Jousted  in  Aspramont,  or  Montalban 
Damasco,  or  Marocco,  or  Trebisond, 
Or  whom  Biserta  sent  from  Afric  shore, 
When  Charlemain  with  all  his  peerage  fell 
By  Fontarabbia.     Thus  far  these  beyond 


MILTON.  177 


Compare  of  mortal  prowess,  yet  observ'd 
Their  dread  commander  :  he,  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent, 
Stood  like  a  tower :  his  form  had  yet  not  lost, 
All  her  original  brightness  ;  nor  appear' d 
Less  than  arch-angel  ruin'd,  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscur'd:  as  when  the  sun,  new  risen, 
Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air 
Shorn  of  his  beams  ;  or  from  behind  the  moon, 
In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight  sheds 
On  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of  change 
Perplexes  monarchs.     Darkened  so,  yet  shone 
Above  them  all  the  arch-angel :  but  his  face 
Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrench' d  ;  and  care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek  ;  but  under  brows 
Of  dauntless  courage,  and  considerate  pride, 
Waiting  revenge. 


VULCAN. 

Nor  was  his  name  unheard,  or  unador'd 
In  ancient  Greece ; — and  in  Ausonian  land 
Men  call'd  him  Mulciber  ;  and  how  he  fell 
From  heaven,  they  fabled,  thrown  by  angry  Jove 
Sheer  o'er  the  crystal  battlements.     From  morn 
To  noon  he  fell ; — from  noon  to  dewy  eve, 
A  summer's  day  ;  and  with  the  setting  sun 
Dr  opt  from  the  zenith  like  a  falling  star. 


THE  FALLEN  ANGELS  HEARD  RISING  FROM  COUNCIL 

Their  rising  all  at  once  was  as  the  sound 
Of  thunder  heard  remote. 

18 


L78  MILTON. 


SATAN  ON  THE  WING  FOR  EARTH. 

Meanwhile  the  adversary  of  God  and  man, 

Satan,  with  thoughts  inflam'd  of  highest  design, 

Puts  on  swift  wings,  and  towards  the  gates  of  hell 

Explores  his  solitary  flight :  sometimes 

He  scours  the  right-hand  coast,  sometimes  the  left ; 

Now  shaves  with  level  wing  the  deep  ;  then  soars 

Up  to  the  fiery  concave  towering  high. 

As  when  far  off  at  sea  a  fleet  descried 

Hangs  in  the  clouds,  by  equinoctial  winds 

Close  sailing  from  Bengala,  or  the  isles 

Of  Ternate  and  Tidore,  whence  merchants  bring 

Their  spicy  drugs ;  they,  on  the  trading  flood, 

Through  the  wide  Ethiopian  to  the  Cape, 

Ply  stemming  nightly  towards  the  pole  :    So  seemed 

Far  off  the  flying  Fiend. 


THE  MEETING  OF  SATAN  AND  DEATH. 

The  other  shape 
If  shape  it  might  be  call'd  that  shape  had  none 
Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb  ; 
Or  substance  might  be  call'd  that  shadow  seem'd, 
For  each  seem'd  either :    black  it  stood  as  Night, 
Fierce  as  ten  Furies,  terrible  as  Hell, 
And  shook  a  dreadful  dart ;  what  seem'd  his  head 
The  likeness  of  a  kingly  crown  had  on. 
Satan  was  now  at  hand,  and  from  his  seat 
The  monster  moving  onward  came  as  fast 
With  horrid  strides  ;  Hell  trembled  as  he  strode. 
The  undaunted  Fiend  what  this  might  be  admir'd, 
Admir'd,  not  fear'd  ;   God  and  his  Son  except, 
Created  thing  naught  valued  he,  nor  shunn'd ; 
And  with  disdainful  look  thus  first  began  : — 

"  Whence  and  what  art  thou,  execrable  shape! 
That  dar'st,  though  grim  and  terrible,  advance 
Thy  miscreated  front  athwart  my  way 


MILTON.  179 


To  yonder  gates  ?  through  them  I  mean  to  pass, 
That  be  assur'd,  with  leave  unask'd  of  thee : 
Retire,  or  taste  thy  folly  ;  and  learn  by  proof, 
Hell-born  !  not  to  contend  with  Spirits  of  Heaven." 

To  whom  the  Goblin,  full  of  wrath,  replied : — 
"  Art  thou  that  Traitor-angel ;  art  thou  he 
Who  first  broke  peace  in  heaven,  and  faith,  till  then 
Unbroken  ;  and  in  proud  rebellious  arms 
Drew  after  him  the  third  part  of  Heaven's  sons 
Conjur'd  against  the  Highest;  for  which  both  thou 
And  they,  outcast  from  God,  are  here  condemn'd 
To  waste  eternal  days  in  wo  and  pain  ? 
And  reckon'st  thou  thyself  with  Spirits  of  Heaven, 
Hell-doom'd !    and  breath'st  defiance  here  and  scorn, 
Where  I  reign  king,  and  to  enrage  thee  more, 
Thy  king  and  lord '?     Back  to  thy  punishment, 
False  fugitive  !  and  to  thy  speed  add  wings, 
Lest  with  a  whip  of  scorpions  I  pursue 
Thy  lingering,  or  with  one  stroke  of  this  dart, 
Strange  horror  seize  thee,  and  pangs  unfelt  before." 

So  spake  the  grizly  Terror,  and  in  shape, 
So  speaking  and  so  threatening,  grew  ten-fold 
More  dreadful  and  deform.      On  the  other  side 
Incens'd  with  indignation,  Satan  stood 
Unterrified ;   and  like  a  comet  bum'd, 
That  fires  the  length  of  Ojmiuchus  huge 
In  the  arctic  sky,  and  from  his  horrid  hair 
Shakes  pestilence  and  war.     Each  at  the  head 
Levelled  his  deadly  aim  ;  their  fatal  hands 
JVo  second  stroke  intend;  and  such  a  frown 
Each  cast  at  the  other,  as  when  two  black  clouds 
With  Heaven's  artillery  fraught,  come  rattling  on 
Over  the  Caspian,  then  stand  front  to  front, 
Hovering  a  space,  till  winds  the  signal  blow 
To  join  their  dark  encounter  in  mid  air : 
So  frown'd  the  mighty  combatants,  that  hell 
Grew  darker  at  their  frown  ;  so  match'd  they  stood ; 
For  never  but  once  more  was  either  like 
To  meet  so  great  a  foe :  and  now  great  deeds 
Had  been  achiev'd,  whereof  all  hell  had  rung, 
Had  not  the  snaky  Sorceress  that  sat 
Fast  by  hell-gate,  and  kept  the  fatal  key, 
Risen,  and  with  hideous  outcry  rush'd  between. 


180  MILTON. 


L'ALLEGRO. 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  midnight  born 

In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and  sights  unholy 

Find  out  some  uncouth  cell, 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  her  jealous  wings, 

And  the  night-raven  sings ; 

There  under  ebon  shades,  and  low-brow'd  rocks 

As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 

But  corne,  thou  goddess  fair  and  free, 

In  heaven  yclept  Euphrosyne, 

And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth ; 

Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth 

With  two  sister  Graces  more, 

To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore  : 

Or  whether,  as  some  sager  sing,1 

The  frolic  wind,  that  breathes  the  spring, 

Zephyr  with  Aurora  playing, 

As  he  met  her  once  a  Maying, 

There  on  beds  of  violets  blue 

And  fresh-blown  roses  wash'd  in  dew, 

Fill'd  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 

So  buxom,  blithe  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 

Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 

Quips  and  Cranks,  and  wanton  Wiles,2 

Nods  and  Becks  and  wreathtd  Smiles 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek  ; 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 

Come  and  trip  it,  as  you  go, 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe  ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 

The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 

And,  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 


MILTON.  isi 


To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

In  unreproved  pleasures  free ; 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 

And  singing,  startle  the  dull  night, 

From,  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 

Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 

Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow, 

And  at  my  window  bid  good  morrow, 

Through  the  sweet-briar,  or  the  vine, 

Or  the  twisted  eglantine ; 

While  the  cock  with  lively  din, 

Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 

And  to  the  stack  or  the  barn-door 

Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before : 

Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 

Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 

From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 

Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill : 

Sometimes  walking,  not  unseen, 

By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 

Right  against  the  eastern  gate, 

Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state, 

Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light, 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight; 

While  the  ploughman  near  at  hand, 

I17histles  o'er  the  furrowed  land, 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale,4 

Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures, 

Whilst  the  landskip  round  it  measures , 

Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray , 

Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 

The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest 

Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 

Shallow  brooks  and  rivers  wide. 

Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 

Bosom' d  high  in  tufted  trees, 

Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 

The  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes.* 

Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes, 

From  betwixt  tioo  aged  oaks  ; 

Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis,  met, 

Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 


182  MILTON. 


Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes, 

Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses  ; 

And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves 

With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves ; 

Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 

To  the  tann'd  haycock  in  the  mead. 

Sometimes,  with  secure  delight, 

The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 

And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 

To  many  a  youth  and  many  &  maid, 

Dancing  in  the  chequer 'd  shade.  ; 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  sunshine  holy-day, 

Till  the  live-long  day-light  fail. 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale, 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 

How  faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat: 

She  was  pinch'd,  and  pull'd,  she  said, 

And  he,  by  friars'  lantern  led ; 

Tells  how  the  drudging  Goblin  sweat, 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 

His  shadowy  flail  had  thrash'd  the  corn, 

That  ten-day  laborers  could  not  end  ; 

Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 

And  stretch'd  out  all  the  chimney's  length 

Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength  ; 

And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 

Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lull'd  to  sleep, 

Tower'd  cities  please  us  then, 

And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 

Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold, 

In  weeds  of  peace,  high  triumphs  hold, 

With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 

Rain  influence,6  and  judge  the  prize 

Of  wit,  or  arms,  while  both  contend 

To  win  her  grace,  whom  all  commend. 

There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 

In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear ; 

And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 

With  masque  and  antique  pageantry ; 

Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 

On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 


MILTON.  183 


Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 

If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on,7 

Or  sweetest  Shakspeare,  Fancy's  child, 

Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild 

And  ever  against  eating  cares, 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 

Married  to  immortal  verse, 

Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce, 

In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 

Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 

With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning, 

The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony  ; 

That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 

From  golden  slumbers  on  a  bed 

Of  heap 'dElysian  flowers  and  hear 

Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 

Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 

His  half  regained  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 

Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 

Milton  shows  his  early  fondness  for  the  Italian  language,  by 
taking  from  it  the  titles  of  these  poems.  V  Allegro  is  the  mirth- 
ful (man),  and  II  Penseroso  the  melancholy  (pensive  rather,  or 
thoughtful).  These  two  poems  are  supposed,  with  good  reason, 
to  have  been  written  at  Horton  in  Buckinghamshire,  where  his 
parents  were  residing  at  the  time  of  their  composition.  I  men- 
tion this  circumstance,  first  because  it  is  pleasant  to  know  when 
poetry  is  written  in  poetical  places,  and  next  for  the  sake  of 
such  readers  as  may  happen  to  know  the  spot. 

i "  Some  sager  sing." — Ben  Jonson,  in  one  of  his  Masks.  "  Be- 
cause," says  Warburton,  "those  who  give  to  Mirth  such  gross 
companions  as  Eating  and  Drinking,  are  the  less  sage  mytholo- 
gists." 

2"  Quips,  and  Cranks,  and  wanton  Wiles." — What  a  Crank  is,  the 
commentators  are  puzzled  to  say.  They  guess,  from  analogy 
with  "  winding  turns"  (which  the  word  originally  appears  to 
signify),  that  the  poet  means  cross  purposes,  or  some  other  such 
pastime.  The  witty  author  of  Hints  to  a  young  Reviewer  (after- 
wards, I  believe,  no  mean  reviewer  himself),  who  criticised  these 


184  MILTON. 


poems  upon  the  pleasant  assumption  of  their  having  "just  come 
out,"  and  expressed  his  astonishment  at  "  Mr.  Milton's  amatory- 
notions"  (I  quote  from  memory),  takes  occasion,  from  the  obscu- 
rity of  this  word,  to  observe,  that  the  "  phenomenon  of  a  trip- 
ping crank"  would  be  very  curious,  and  "  doubtless  attract  nu- 
merous spectators."  He  also,  in  reference  to  passages  a  little 
further  on,  wonders  how  "  Mirth  can  be  requested  to  come  and 
go  at  the  same  instant;"  and  protests  at  the  confident  immortal- 
ity of  the  "young  gentleman  who  takes  himself  for  a  poet,"  in 
proposing  to  live  with  Mirth  and  Liberty  both  together. 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free. 

How  delightful  is  wit,  when  bantering  in  behalf  of  excellence  ! 


z  "Through  the  sweet-briar,"  &c— «  Sweet-briar  and  eglantine," 
says  Warton,  "  are  the  same  plant :  by  the  twisted  eglantine  he 
therefore  means  the  honey-suckle  :  all  three  are  plants  often 
growing  against  the  side  or  walls  of  a  house."  This  is  true  ; 
yet  the  deduction  is  hai'dly  certain.  The  same  name  sometimes 
means  different  flowers,  in  different  counties  ;  as  may  be  seen 
from  passages  in  Shakspeare.  Eglantine,  however,  is  the 
French  word  for  the  flower  of  the  sweet-briar  (eglantier)  ;  and 
hence  it  came  to  mean,  in  English,  the  briar  itself.  Perhaps,  if 
Milton  had  been  asked  why  he  used  it  in  this  place,  he  would 
have  made  Johnson's  noble  answer  to  the  lady,  when  she  inquir- 
ed why  he  defined  pastern,  in  his  Dictionary,  to  be  a  horse's 
knee  ; — "  Ignorance,  madam,  ignorance."  Poets  are  often  fonder 
of  flowers  than  learned  in  their  names ;  and  Milton,  like  his 
illustrious  brethren,  Chaucer  and  Spenser,  was  born  within  the 
sound  of  Bow  bell. 

4  "  And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale." — It  used  to  be  thought,  till 
Mr.  Headley  informed  Warton  otherwise,  telling  his  tale  meant 
telling  a  love-tale,  or  story.  The  correction  of  this  fancy  is  now 
admitted  ;  namely,  that  tale  is  a  technical  word  for  numbering 
sheep,  and  is  so  used  by  several  poets, — Dryden  for  one.  War- 
ton,  like  a  proper  Arcadian,  was  loth  to  give  up  the  fancy  ;  but 
he  afterwards  found  the  new  interpretation  to  be  much  the  better 


MILTON.  185 

one.  Every  shepherd  telling  his  story  or  love-lale,  under  a 
hawthorn,  at  one  and  the  same  instant,  all  over  a  district,  would 
resemble  indeed  those  pastoral  groups  upon  bed-curtains,  in 
which,  and  in  no  other  place,  such  marvels  are  to  be  met  with. 
Yet,  in  common  perhaps  with  most  young  readers,  I  remember 
the  time  when  I  believed  it,  and  was  as  sorry  as  Warton  to  be 
undeceived. 

5"  The  Cynosure  of  neighboring  eye." — Cynosure  (dog's-tail)  for 
load-star,  must  have  been  a  term  a  little  hazardous,  as  well  as 
over-learned,  when  it  first  appeared ;  though  Milton,  thinking  of  the 
nymph  who  was  changed  into  the  star  so  called  (since  known  as 
Ursa  minor),  was  probably  of  opinion,  that  it  gave  his  image  a 
peculiar  fitness  and  beauty.  That  enjoying  and  truly  poetical 
commentator,  Thomas  Warton,  quotes  a  passage  from  Browne's 
Britamiia's  Pastorals,  that  may  have  been  in  Milton's  recol- 
lection : — 

Yond  palace,  whose  pale  turret  tops 
Over  the  stately  wood  survey  the  copse  ; 

and  then  he  indulges  in  pleasing  memories  of  the  old  style  of 
building,  and  in  regrets  for  the  new,  which  was  less  picturesque 
and  less  given  to  concealment.  "  This  was  the  great  mansion- 
house,"  says  he,  "  in  Milton's  early  days.  With  respect  to 
their  rural  residences,  there  was  a  coyness  in  our  Gothic  ances- 
tors. Modern  seats  are  seldom  so  deeply  ambushed."  Warton 
would  have  been  pleased  at  the  present  revival  of  the  old  taste, 
which  indeed  is  far  superior  to  the  bald  and  barrack-like  insipi- 
dities of  his  day  ;  though  as  to  the  leafy  accessories,  I  am  afraid 
the  poetic  pleasure  of  living  "  embosoin'd  "  in  trees  is  not 
thought  the  most  conducive  to  health. 

6  "  Rain  influence." — Da  begli  occhi  un  piacer  si  caldo  piove. 
Such  fervent  pleasure  rains  from  her  sweet  eyes. 

Petrarch,  Son.  czxzi 

T'Jonson's  learned  sock." — "Milton  has  more  frequently  and 
openly  copied  the  plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  than  of 
Shakspcare.  One  is  therefore  surprised,  that  in  his  panegyric 
on  the  stage  he  did  not  mention  the  twin-bards,  when  he  ecle- 


186  MILTON. 


brated  the  learned  sock  of  Jonson,  and  the  wood-notes  wild  of 
Shakspeare.     But  he  concealed  his  love." — Warton. 

Perhaps  he  was  afraid  of  avowing  it,  on  account  of  the  licence 
of  their  muse. 


IL  PENSEROSO. 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  Father  bred  ! 

How  little  you  bested, 

Or  rill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys ! 

Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess, 

As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  thai  people  the  sunbeams  ;8 

Or  likeliest  hovering  dreams, 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 

But  hail,  thou  Goddess,  sage  and  holy, 

Hail,  divinest  Melancholy ! 

Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 

To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 

And  therefore,  to  our  loeaker  view, 

Overlaid  with  black,  staid  wisdom's  hue  ; 

Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 

Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem,9 

Or  that  starr'd  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 

To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 

The  sea-nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended  : 

Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended  : 

Thee  bright-haired  Vesta,  long  of  yore, 

To  solitary  Saturn  bore : 

His  daughter  she  ;  in  Saturn's  reign 

Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain : 

Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 

He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 

Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 

Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove 

Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure, 

Sober,  stedfast,  and  demure, 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 

Flowing  with  majestic  tram, 


MILTON.  187 


And  sable  stole  of  Cypress  lawn 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 

Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 

With  even  step  and  musing  gait, 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitti?ig  in  thine  eyes  ; 

There  held  in  holy  passion  still, 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till, 

With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast, 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast, — 

And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace  and  Quiet, 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 

And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 

Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing  : 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure  : 

But  first,  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 

The  cherub  Contemplation  ;10 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 

Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song, 

In  her  sweetest  saddest  plight, 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 

Gently  o'er  the  accustom'd  oak, 

Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly, 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy  !  n 

Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among 

I  woo  to  hear  thy  even-song  : 

And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon, 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 

Like  one  that  hath  been  led  astray  13 

Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way ; 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  boufd, 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft,  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground. 

I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound, 

Over  some  wide-water  d  shore, 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar: 

Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 

Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room13 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom; 


188  MILTON. 


Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth. 
Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm, 
To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 
Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour, 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  totver,u 
Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear 
With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds,  or  what  vast  regions,  hold 
The  immortal  mind,  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook : 
And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground, 
Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 
With  planet  or  with  element. 
Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine  ; 
Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskin'd  stage. 
But  0,  sad  virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musaeus  from  his  bower  ? 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek, 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek . 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told  15 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife, 
That  own'd  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass  ; 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride : 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 
Of  turneys  and  of  trophies  hung, 
Of  forests  and  enchantments  drear, 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear 
Thus  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career, 
Till  civil-suited  morn  appear  ; 
Not  trick'd  and  froune'd  as  she  was  went 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 
Butkercheft  in  a  comely  cloud, 
While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 


MILTON.  189 


Or  usher'd  with  a  shower  still 

When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  Jill, 

Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves 

With  minute-drops  from  off  the  eaves : 

And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 

His  flaring  beams,  me,  Goddess,  bring 

To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 

And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 

Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak, 

Wliere  the  rude  axe,  with  heaved  stroke, 

Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt, 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt 

There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook, 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 

Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye, 

While  the  bee  with  honied  thigh, 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring, 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep, 

Entice  the  dewy-feather 'd  Sleep  ; 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  display'd, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid  ; 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  rny  due  fest  never  fail 

To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale, 

And  love  the  high  embowed  roof, 

With  antick  pillars,  massy  proof, 

And  storied  windows  richly  dight, 

Casting  a  dim  religious  light: 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 

To  the  full-voic'd  quire  below  ; 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear, 

As  may  with  sweet?iess,  through  mine  eart 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstacies, 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew ; 


1*90  MILTON. 


Till  old  experience  do  attain 

To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give, 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 

He  pute  the  Penseroso  last,  as  a  climax  ;  because  he  prefers 
.he  pensive  mood  to  the  mirthful.  I  do  not  know  why  he  spells 
vhe  word  in  this  manner.  I  have  never  seen  it  without  the  i, — 
Pensieroso.  In  Florio's  Dictionary  the  ie  varies  into  an  o, — 
Pensoroso  ;  whence  apparently  the  abbreviated  form, — Pensoso. 

8  "As  thick  as  motes  in  the  sunne  beams." — Chaucer. — But  see  how 
by  one  word,  people,  a  great  poet  improves  what  he  borrows. 

6  "  Prince  Memnon's  sister." — It  does  not  appear,  by  the  ancient 
authors,  that  Memnon  had  a  sister  ;  but  Milton  wished  him  to 
have  one  ;  so  here  she  is.  It  has  been  idly  objected  to  Spenser, 
wrho  dealt  much  in  this  kind  of  creation,  that  he  had  no  rig-lit  to 
add  to  persons  and  circumstances  in  old  mythology.  •  As  if  the 
same  poetry  which  saw  what  it  did  might  not  see  more  ! 

w  "  The  cherub  Contemplation." — Learnedly  called  cherub,  not 
seraph  ;  because  the  cherubs  were  the  angels  of  knowledge,  the 
seraphs  of  love.  In  the  celestial  hierarchy,  by  a  noble  senti- 
ment, the  seraphs  rank  higher  than  the  cherubs. 

"  "  Most  musical,  most  melancholy."— A  question  has  been  started 
of  late  years,  whether  the  song  of  the  nightingale  is  really 
melancholy ;  whether  it  ought  not  rather  to  be  called  merry,  as, 
in  fact,  Chaucer  does  call  it.  But  merry,  in  Chaucer's  time, 
did  not  mean  solely  what  it  does  now  ;  but  any  kind  of  hasty  or 
strenuous  prevalence,  as  "  merry  men,"  meaning  men  in  their 
heartiest  and  manliest  condition.  He  speaks  even  of  the  "  merry 
organ,"  meaning  the  church  organ — the  "  merry  organ  of  the 
mass."  Coleridge,  in  some  beautiful  lines,  thought  fit  to  take  the 
merry  side,  out  of  a  notion,  real  or  supposed,  of  the  necessity  of 
vindicating  nature  from  sadness.  But  the  question  is  surely 
very  simple, — one  of  pure  association  of  ideas.  The  night- 
ingale's song  is  not  in  itself  melancholy,  that  is,  no  result  ol 
sadness  on  the  part  of  the  bird  ;  but  coming,  as  it  does,  in  the 
night-time,  and  making  us  reflect,  and  reminding  us  by  its  very 
beauty  of  the  mystery  and  fleetingness  of  all  sweet  things,  it 


MILTON.  191 


becomes  melancholy  in  the  finer  sense  of  the  word,  by  the  com- 
bined overshadowing  of  the  hour  and  of  thought. 

12  "  Like  one  that  hath  been  led  astray.'''' — This  calls  to  mind  a 
beautiful  passage  about  the  moon,  in  Spenser's  Epithalamium  : — 

Who  is  the  same  that  at  my  window  peeps  ? 
Or  who  is  that  fair  face  that  shines  so  bright  ? 
Is  it  not  Cynthia,  she  that  never  sleeps, 
But  walks  about  high  heaven  all  the  night  ? 

13  «  Where  glowing  embers." — Here,  also,  the  reader  is  reminded 
of  Spenser. — See  p.  88: — 

A  little  glooming  light  much  like  a  shade. 

14  "  And  may  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  seen." 

The  picturesque  of  the  "  be  seen"  has  been  much  admired. 
Its  good-nature  seems  to  deserve  no  less  approbation.  The  light 
is  seen  afar  by  the  traveller,  giving  him  a  sense  of  home  com- 
fort, and,  perhaps,  helping  to  guide  his  way. 

Is  "  Call  up  him  that  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold." 

Chaucer,  with  his  Squire's  Tale.  But  why  did  Milton  turn 
Cambuscan,  that  is,  Cambus  the  Khan,  into  Cambuscan.  The 
accent  in  Chaucer  is  never  thrown  on  the  middle  syllable. 


LYCIDAS. 

The  poet  bewails  the  death  of  his  young  friend  and  fellow- 
student,  Edward  King,  of  Christ's  College,  Cambridge,  who  was 
drowned  at  sea,  on  his  way  to  visit  his  friends  in  Ireland.  The 
vessel,  which  was  in  bad  condition,  went  suddenly  to  the  bottom, 
in  calm  weather,  not  far  from  the  English  coast ;  and  all  on 
board  perished.  Milton  was  then  in  his  twenty-ninth  year,  and 
his  friend  in  his  twenty-fifth.     The  poem,  with  good  reason,  is 


102  MILTON. 


supposed  to  have  been  written,  like  the  preceding  ones,  at  Hor- 
ton,  in  Buckinghamshire. 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more, 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude, 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year 
Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear, 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due  : 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  ?  he  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear.10 

Begin,  then,  sisters  of  the  sacred  well, 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring, 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string,17 
Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse, 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words  favor  my  destin'd  urn, 
And,  as  he  passes,  turn, 
And  bid  fair  peace  to  be  my  sable  shroud : 

For  we  were  nurst  upon  the  self-same  hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill : 
Together  both,  e'er  the  high  lawns  appear'd 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  Morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  grey-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn. 
Batt'ning  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night 
Oft  till  the  star,  that  rose,  at  evening,  bright, 
Tow'rds  heav'n's  descent  had  slop'd  his  west'ring  wheel 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 
Temper'd  to  the  oaten  flute  ; 

Rough  Satyrs  dane'd ;   and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long 
And  old  Damaetas  lov'd  to  hear  our  song. 

But,  O  the  heavy  change,  noiv  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return  ! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves, 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 
And  all  their  echoes  mourn. 
The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 


MILTON.  193 


Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 

As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 

Or  taint  worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze, 

Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear, 

When  first  the  white  thorn  blows  ; 

Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear, 

Where  were  ye,  Nymphs, when  the  remorseless  deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  lov'd  Lycidas  ?  1S 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep, 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream  :19 
Ah,  me  !  I  fondly  dream, 

Had  ye  been  there — for  what  could  that  have  done  ? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore, 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 
Whom  universal  Nature  did  lament, 
When,  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar, 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore  ? 

Alas !  what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely,  slighted,  shepherd's  trade, 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse  ? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  JVecsra's  hair  ? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds) 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days ; 
But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  th'  abhorred  shears, 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life. — "  But  not  the  praise" 
Phoebus  reply'd,  and  touch'd  my  trembling  ears  ; 
"  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 
Nor  in  the  glist'ring  foil 
Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor  lies, 
But  lives,  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes, 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove  ; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 
Of  30  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed." 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honor'd*  flood, 
Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crown'd  with  vocal  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood : 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea 
14 


194  MILTON. 


That  came  in  Neptune's  plea ; 

He  ask'd  the  waves,  and  ask'd  the  felon  winds, 

What  hard  mishap  hath  doom'd  this  gentle  swain  ? 

And  question'd  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 

That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory. 

They  knew  not  of  his  story ; 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings, 

That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  stray'd ; 

The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 

Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  play'd. 

It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark, 

Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigg'd  with  curses  dark, 

That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow, 

His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge, 

Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 

Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscrib'd  with  woe.20 

"  Ah  !  who  hath  reft,"  quoth  he,  "  my  dearest  pledge  ?* 

Last  came  and  last  did  go.21 

The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake  ; 

Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain 

(The  golden  opes,  and  iron  shuts  amain), 

He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake : 

"  How  well  could  I  have  spar'd  for  thee,  young  swain,'"* 

"  Enow  of  such,  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 

"  Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold  ? 

"  Of  other  cares  they  little  reckoning  make, 

"  Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 

"  And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest; 

"  Blind  mouths  !    that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 

"  A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learn'd  aught  else  the  least 

"  That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs ! 

"  What  recks  it  them?     What  need  they  ?     They  are  sped  ; 

"  And,  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 

"  Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw; 

"  The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed; 

"  But  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 

"  Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread ; 

"  Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 

"  Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said : 

"  But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 

"  Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more." 

Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past,'® 
That  shrunk  thy  streams  ;  return,  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells,  and  flowerets,  of  a  thousand  hues. 


MILTON.  195 


Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 

Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks, 

On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart-star  sparely  looks  : 

Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelVd  eyes, 

That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honied  showers,™ 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers : 

Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 

The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 

The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freak' d  with  jet, 

The  glowing  violet,25 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attir'd  woodbine, 

With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears  : 

Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 

And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears, 

To  strow  the  laureat  hearse  where  Lycid  lies  ; 

For,  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise. — 

Ay  rne  !  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas, 

Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurl'd, 

Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Where  thou  perhaps,  under  the  whelming  tide, 

Visifst  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world ; 

Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 

Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 

Where  the  great  Vision  of  the  guarded  Mount26 

Looks  towards  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold  ; 

Look  homeward,  Angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth  : 

And,  0,  ye  dolphins !  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woful  Shepherds,  weep  no  more, 
For  Lycidae  your  sorrow  is  not  dead, 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor  ; 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky: 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  waWd  the  waves 
Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above, 
In  solemn  troops  and  sweet  societies, 
That  sing,  and,  singing,  in  their  glory  move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  tver  from  his  eyes. 


196  MILTON 


Now  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more  ; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  genius  of  the  shore, 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and  rills, 
While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals  grey , 
He  touch'd  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay  : 
And  now  the  sun  had  strctch'd  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay : 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitch'd  his  mantle  blue  : 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new. 

6  "  Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear." — Catullus  uses  the 
word  in  a  like  sense,  when  alluding  to  the  elegies  of  Simonides 
in  his  touching  expostulation  with  his  friend,  Cornificius,  whom 
he  requests  to  come  and  see  him  during  a  time  of  depression : — 

Paulum  quid  lubet  allocutionis 
Mcestius  lacrymis  Simonideis. 

Prythee  a  little  talk  for  ease,  for  ea»3, 
Sad  as  the  tears  of  poor  Simonides. 

17  <<  Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly,"  &c. 
"  Hence  with  denial  vain,"  &c. 

The  first  of  these  lines  has  a  poor  prosaic  effect,  like  one  of 
the  inane  mixtures  of  familiarity  and  assumed  importance  in  the 
"  Pindaric"  writers  of  the  age.  And  "  hence  with  denial  vain" 
is  a  very  unnecessary  piece  of  harshness  towards  the  poor 
Muses,  who  surely  were  not  disposed  to  ill-treat  the  young 
poet. 

js  «  Clos'd  o'er  the  head,"  &c. — The  very  best  image  of  drowning 
he  could  have  chosen,  especially  during  calm  weather,  both  as 
regards  sufferer  and  spectator.  The  combined  sensations  of 
darkness,  of  liquid  enclosure,  and  of  the  final  interposition  of  a 
heap  of  waters  between  life  and  the  light  of  day,  are  those 
which  most  absorb  the  faculties  of  a  drowning  person.  Haud 
insubmersus  loquor. 

19  "  Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream." — The  "iver 
Dee,  in  Spenser's  and  Drayton's  poetry,  and  old  British  history, 
is  celebrated  for  its  ominous  character  and  its  magicians. 


MILTON.  197 


20  "  Sanguine  flowW  inscribed  with  wo." — The  ancient  poetical 
hyacinth,  proved,  I  think,  by  Professor  Martyn,  in  his  Virgil's 
Georgics,  to  be  the  turk's-cap  lily,  the  only  flower  on  which 
characters  like  the  Greek  exclamation  of  wo,  AI,  AI,  are  to  be 
found.  The  idea  in  Milton  is  from  Moschus's  Elegy  on  the 
Death  of  Bion  : — 

Nov,  vaictvQe,  \a\ei  ra  aa  ypafi^iara^  km  ir~Ktov  at  at 
Ba/i/?aAE  cois  itETaXoioi. 

Now  more  than  ever  say,  O,  hyacinth  ! 
Ai,  ai ;  and  babble  of  your  written  sorrows. 

21  "  Last  came  and  last  did  go"—"  This  passage,"  says  Hazlitt, 
"  which  alludes  to  the  clerical  character  of  Lycidas,  has  been 
found  fault  with,  as  combining  the  truths  of  the  Christian 
religion  with  the  fiction  of  the  Heathen  mythology.  I  con- 
ceive there  is  very  little  foundation  for  this  objection,  either 
in  good  reason  or  good  taste.  I  will  not  go  so  far  as  to 
defend  Camoens,  who,  in  his  Lusiad,  makes  Jupiter  send 
Mercury  with  a  dream  to  propagate  the  Catholic  religion ; 
nor  do  I  know  that  it  is  generally  proper  to  introduce  the  two 
things  in  the  same  poem,  though  I  see  no  objection  to  it  here ; 
but  of  this  I  am  quite  sure,  that  there  is  no  inconsistency  or 
natural  repugnance  between  this  poetical  and  religious  faith  in 
the  same  mind.  To  the  understanding,  the  belief  of  the  one  is 
incompatible  with  that  of  the  other,  but,  in  the  imagination,  they 
not  only  may,  but  do  constantly,  co-exist.  I  will  venture  to  go 
farther,  and  maintain  that  every  classical  scholar,  however 
orthodox  a  Christian  he  may  be,  is  an  honest  Heathen  at  heart. 
This  requires  explanation.  Whoever,  then,  attaches  a  reality 
to  any  idea  beyond  the  mere  name,  has,  to  a  certain  extent 
(though  not  an  abstract),  an  habitual  and  practical  belief  in  it. 
Now,  to  any  one  familiar  with  the  names  of  the  personages  of 
the  heathen  mythology,  they  convey  a  positive  identity  beyond 
the  mere  name.  We  refer  them  to  something  out  of  ourselves. 
It  is  only  by  an  effort  of  abstraction  that  we  divest  ourselves  of 
Ihe  idea  of  their  reality  ;  all  our  involuntary  prejudices  are  on 
their  side.     This  is  enough  for  the  poet.     They  impose  on  the 


198  MILTON. 


imagination  by  the  attractions  of  beauty  and  grandeur.  They 
come  down  to  us  in  sculpture  and  in  song.  We  have  the  same 
associations  with  them  as  if  they  had  really  been  :  for  the  be- 
lief of  the  fiction  in  ancient  times  has  produced  all  the  same 
effects  as  the  reality  could  have  done.  It  was  a  reality  to  the 
minds  of  the  ancient  Greeks  and  Romans,  and  through  them  it  is 
reflected  to  us." — Lectures  on  the  English  Poets  (Templeman's 
edition),  p.  338. 

22  "  How  well  could  I  have  spar'd"  &c "  He  here  animadverts," 

says  Warton,  "  to  the  endowments  of  the  church,  at  the  same  time 
insinuating  that  they  were  shared  by  those  only  who  sought  the 
emoluments  of  the  sacred  office,  to  the  exclusion  of  a  learned 
and  conscientious  clergy."  An  old  complaint !  Meantime  the 
church  has  continued  mild  and  peaceful.  An  incalculable 
blessing ! 

23  "  Return,  Alpheus,"  &c — How  much  more  sweet  and  Chris- 
tian Paganism  itself  sounds,  after  those  threats  of  religious 
violence  !  The  "  two-handed  engine"  is  supposed  to  mean  the 
axe  preparing  for  poor,  weak,  violent  Laud  !  Milton  was  now 
beginning  to  feel  the  sectarian  influence  of  his  father;  one, 
unfortunately,  of  a  sullen  and  unpoetical  sort. 

24  "  Honied  showers." — There  is  an  awkwardness  of  construction 
between  this  and  the  preceding  line  which  hurts  the  beautiful 
idea  of  the  flowers  "  sucking  the  honied  showers,"  by  seeming  to 
attribute  the  suction  to  their  "  eyes."  There  might,  indeed,  be 
learned  allowance  for  such  an  ellipsis  ;  and  we  hardly  know 
where  to  find  the  proper  noun  substantive  or  predicate  for  the 
verb,  if  it  be  not  so ;   but  the  image  is  terribly  spoilt  by  it. 

25  "  Glowing  violet." — Why  "  glowing  ?"  The  pansy  (heart's- 
ease)  "  freak'd  with  jet"  is  exquisite  ;  equally  true  to  letter  and 
spirit. 

20  "  The  great  Vision  of  the  guarded  Mount." — This  is  the  Arch- 
angel Michael,  the  guardian  of  seamen,  sitting  on  the  Mount  off 
the  coast  of  Cornwall  known  by  his  name,  and  looking  towards 
the  coast  of  Gallicia.  It  is  rather  surprising  that  Milton,  with 
his  angelical  tendencies,  did  not  take  the  opportunity  of  saying 
more  of  him.     But  the  line  is  a  grand  one. 


MILTON.  199 


COMUS  THE   SORCERER. 

Thyrsis  tells  the  Brothers  of  a  Lady,  that  their  Sister  has  fallen  lnt» 
the  hands  of  the  Sorcerer  Comus,  dwelling  in  a  wood. 

Within  the  navel  of  this  hideous  wood, 
Immur'd  in  cypress  shades,  a  sorcerer  dwells, 
Of  Bacchus  and  of  Circe  born, — great  Comus, 
Deep  skill'd  in  all  his  mother's  witcheries  ; 
And  here  to  every  thirsty  wanderer 
By  sly  enticement  gives  his  baneful  cup, 
With  many  murmurs  mix'd,  whose  pleasing  poison 
The  visage  quite  transforms  of  him  that  drinks, 
And  the  inglorious  likeness  of  a  beast 
Fixes  instead,  unmoulding  reason's  mintage 
Charactered  in  the  face.     This  have  I  learnt, 
Tending  my  flocks  hard  by  i'  the  hilly  crofts, 
That  brow  this  bottom-glade  :  whence,  night  by  night, 
He  and  his  monstrous  rout  are  heard  to  howl, 
Like  stabled  wolves,  or  tigers  at  their  prey, 
Doing  abhorred  rites  to  Hecate 
In  their  obscured  haunts  of  inmost  bowers ; 
Yet  have  they  many  baits  and  guileful  spells, 
To  inveigle  and  invite  the  unwary  sense 
Of  them  that  pass  unweeting  by  the  way. 
This  evening  late,  by  then  the  chewing  flocks27 
Had  ta'en  their  supper  on  the  savory  herb 
Of  knot-grass  dew-besprent,  and  were  in  fold, 
I  sat  me  down  to  watch  upon  a  bank 
With  ivy  canopied,  and  interwove 
With  flaunting  honey-suckle,  and  began, 
Wrapt  in  a  pleasing  fit  of  melancholy, 
To  meditate  my  rural  minstrelsy, 
Till  fancy  had  her  fill ;  but,  ere  a  close, 
The  wonted  roar  urns  up  amidst  the  woods, 
And  fill'd  the  air  with  barbarous  dissonance ; 
At  which  I  ceas'd,  and  listen'd  them  awhile, 
Till  an  unusual  stop  of  sudden  silence 
Gave  respite  to  the  drowsy  flighted  steeds, 
That  draw  the  litter  of  close-curtained  Sleep  ■ 
At  last  a  soft  and  solemn-breathing  sound 
Rose  like  a  stream  of  rich  distil Vd  perfumei. 


300  MILTON. 


And  stole  upon  the  air,  that  even  Silence 

Was  took  ere  she  was  ware,  and  wished  she  might 

Deny  her  nature,  and  be  never  more 

Still  to  be  so  displaced.     I  was  all  ear, 

And  took  in  strains  that  might  create  a  soul 

Under  the  ribs  of  Death  :  but  0  !  ere  long, 

Too  well  I  did  perceive  it  was  the  voice 

Of  my  most  honor'd  lady,  your  dear  sister. 

Amaz'd  I  stood,  harrow'd  with  grief  and  fear, 

And,  O  poor  hapless  nightingale,  thought  I, 

How  sweet  thou  sing'st,  how  near  the  deadly  snare 

Then  down  the  lawns  I  ran  with  headlong  haste, 

Through  paths  and  turnings  often  trod  by  day  ; 

Till,  guided  by  mine  ear,  I  found  the  place, 

Where  that  damn'd  wizard,  hid  in  sly  disguise, 

(For  so  by  certain  signs  I  knew),  had  met 

Already,  ere  my  best  speed  could  prevent, 

The  aidless  innocent  lady,  his  wish'd  prey ; 

Who  gently  ask'd  if  he  had  seen  such  two, 

Supposing  him  some  neighbor  villager. 

Longer  I  durst  not  stay,  but  soon  I  guess'd 

Ye  were  the  two  she  meant ;  with  that  I  sprung 

Into  swift  flight,  till  I  had  found  you  here  ; 

But  further  know  I  not. 

See.  Br.  O  night,  and  shades  I 

How  are  ye  join'd  with  hell  in  triple  knot 
Against  the  unarmed  weakness  of  one  virgin, 
Alone  and  helpless  !     Is  this  the  confidence 
You  gave  me,  Brother.1' 

Eld.  Br.  Yes,  and  keep  it  still ; 

Lean  on  it  safely ;  not  a  period 
Shall  be  unsaid  for  me  :  against  the  threats 
Of  malice,  or  of  sorcery,  or  that  power 
Which  erring  men  call  chance,  this  I  hold  firm  ;— 
Virtue  may  be  assail'd,  but  never  hurt, — 
Surpris'd  by  unjust  force,  but  not  enthrall'd; 
Yea,  even  that,  which  mischief  meant  most  harm. 
Shall  in  the  happy  trial  prove  most  glory ; 
But  evil  on  itself  shall  back  recoil, 
And  mix  no  more  with  goodness  :  when  at  last 
Gathered  like  scum,  and  settled  to  itself, 
It  shall  be  in  eternal  restless  change, 
Self -fed,  and  self-  consumid  ;  if  this  fail, 
The  pillar 'd  firmament  is  rottenness, 
And  earth's  base  built  on  stubble. 


MILTON.  201 


w  The  chewing  flocks"  &c — "  The  supper  of  the  sheep,"  says 
Warton,  "  is  from  a  beautiful  comparison  in  Spenser, — 

As  gentle  shepherd,  in  sweet  eventide 

When  ruddy  Phoebus  gins  to  welk  (decline)  in  west, 

High  on  a  hill,  his  flock  to  viewen  wide, 

Marks  which  do  bite  their  hasty  supper  best." 

Faerie  Queene,  I.,  s.  23. 

';  Chewing  flocks"  is  good,  but  not  equal  to  "  biting  their  hasty- 
supper. "  It  is  hardly  dramatical,  too,  in  the  speaker  to  stop  to 
notice  the  sweetness  and  dewiness  of  the  sheep's  grass,  while 
he  had  a  story  to  tell,  and  one  of  agitating  interest  to  his  hearers. 


202  COLERIDGE. 


COLERIDGE, 

BORN,    1793 DIED,    1834. 


Coleridge  lived  in  the  most  extraordinary  ani  agitated  period 
of  modern  history  ;  and  to  a  certain  extent  he  was  so  mixed  up 
with  its  controversies,  that  he  was  at  one  time  taken  for  nothing 
but  an  apostate  republican,  and  at  another  for  a  dreaming  theo- 
sophist.  The  truth  is,  that  both  his  politics  and  theosophy  were 
at  the  mercy  of  a  discursive  genius,  intellectually  bold  but 
educationally  timid,  which,  anxious,  or  rather  willing,  to  bring 
conviction  and  speculation  together,  mooting  all  points  as  it 
went,  and  throwing  the  subtlest  glancing  lights  on  many,  ended 
in  satisfying  nobody,  and  concluding  nothing.  Charles  Lamb 
said  of  him,  that  he  had  "  the  art  of  making  the  unintelligible 
appear  intelligible."  He  was  the  finest  dreamer,  the  most 
eloquent  talker,  and  the  most  original  thinker  of  the  day ;  but 
for  want  of  complexional  energy,  did  nothing  with  all  the  vast 
prose  part  of  his  mind  but  help  the  Germans  to  give  a  subtler 
tone  to  criticism,  and  sow  a  few  valuable  seeds  of  thought  in 
minds  worthy  to  receive  them.  Nine-tenths  of  his  theology 
would  apply  equally  well  to  their  own  creeds  in  the  mouths  of 
a  Brahmin  or  a  Mussulman. 

His  poetry  is  another  matter.  It  is  so  beautiful,  and  was  so 
quietly  content  with  its  beauty,  making  no  call  on  the  critics, 
and  receiving  hardly  any  notice,  that  people  are  but  now  begin- 
ning to  awake  to  a  full  sense  of  its  merits.  Of  pure  poetry, 
strictly  so  called,  that  is  to  say,  consisting  of  nothing  but  its 
essential  self,  without  conventional  and  perishing  helps,  he  was 
the  greatest  master  of  his  time.  If  you  would  see  it  in  a  phial, 
like  a  distillation  of  roses  (taking  it,  I  mean,  at  its  best),  it  would 
be  found  without  a  speck.     The  poet  is  happy  with  so  good  a  gift, 


COLERIDGE  203 


and  the  reader  is  "  happy  in  his  happiness."  Yet  so  little, 
sometimes,  are  a  man's  contemporaries  and  personal  acquaint- 
ances able  or  disposed  to  estimate  him  properly,  that  while 
Coleridge,  unlike  Shakspeare,  lavished  praises  on  his  poetic 
friends,  he  had  all  the  merit  of  the  generosity  to  himself ;  and 
even  Hazlitt,  owing  perhaps  to  causes  of  political  alienation, 
could  see  nothing  to  admire  in  the  exquisite  poem  of  Christabel, 
but  the  description  of  the  quarrel  between  the  friends  !  After 
speaking,  too,  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  as  the  only  one  of  his  po- 
ems that  he  could  point  out  to  any  one  as  giving  an  adequate 
idea  of  his  great  natural  powers,  he  adds,  "  It  is  high  German, 
however,  and  in  it  he  seems  to  conceive  of  poetry  but  as  a 
drunken  dream,  reckless,  careless,  and  heedless  of  past,  present, 
and  to  come."  This  is  said  of  a  poem,  with  which  fault  has 
been  found  for  the  exceeding  conscientiousness  of  its  moral  !  O, 
ye  critics,  the  best  of  ye,  what  havoc  does  personal  difference 
play  with  your  judgments!  It  was  Mr.  Hazlitt's  only  or  most 
unwarrantable  censure,  or  one  which  friendship  found  hardest 
to  forgive.  But  peace,  and  honor  too,  be  with  his  memory  ! 
If  he  was  a  splenetic  and  sometimes  jealous  man,  he  was  a  disin- 
terested politician  and  an  admirable  critic  :  and  lucky  were 
those  whose  natures  gave  them  the  right  and  the  power  to  par- 
don him. 

Coleridge,  though  a  born  poet,  was  in  his  style  and  general 
musical  feeling  the  disciple  partly  of  Spenser,  and  partly  of  the 
fine  old  English  ballad-writers  in  the  collection  of  Bishop  Percy. 
But  if  he  could  not  improve  on  them  in  some  things,  how  he  did 
in  others,  especially  in  the  art  of  being  thoroughly  musical  ! 
Of  all  our  writers  of  the  briefer  narrative  poetry,  Coleridge  is 
the  finest  since  Chaucer;  and  assuredly  he  is  the  sweetest  of  all 
our  poets.  Waller's  music  is  but  a  court-flourish  in  compari- 
son ;  and  though  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Collins,  Gray,  Keats, 
Shelley,  and  others,  have  several  as  sweet  passages,  and  Spenser 
is  in  a  certain  sense  musical  throughout,  yet  no  man  has  writ- 
ten whole  poems,  of  equal  length,  so  perfect  in  the  sentiment  of 
music,  so  varied  with  it,  and  yet  leaving  on  the  ear  so  unbroken 
and  single  an  effect. 


204  COLERIDGE. 


A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 
In  a  vision  once  I  saw  ; 
It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  play'd, 
Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

That  is  but  one  note  of  a  music  ever  sweet,  yet  never 
cloying. 

It  ceas'd ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 
A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 
That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 
Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

The  stanzas  of  the  poem  from  which  this  extract  is  made  {The 
Ancient  Mariner)  generally  consist  of  four  lines  only  ;  but  see 
how  the  "brook"  has  carried  him  on  with  it  through  the  silence 
of  the  night. 

I  have  said  a  good  deal  of  the  versification  of  Christabel,  in 
the  Essay  prefixed  to  this  volume,  but  I  cannot  help  giving  a 
further  quotation. 

It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 
The  lady  Christabel,  when  she 
Was  praying  at  the  old  oak  tree. 
Amid  the  jagged  shadows 

Of  massy  leafless  boughs, 
Kneeling  in  the  moonlight 

To  make  her  gentle  vows : 
Her  slender  palms  together  press'd, 
Heaving  sometimes  on  her  breast ; 
Her  face  resigned  to  bliss  or  bale — 
Her  face,  O  call  it  fair,  not  pale  ! 
And  both  blue  eyes  more  bright  than  clear, 
Each  about  to  have  a  tear. 

All  the  weeping  eyes  of  Guido  were  nothing  to  that.  But  I 
.shall  be  quoting  the  whole  poem.  I  wish  I  could  ;  but  I  fear  to 
trespass  upon  the  bookseller's  property.  One  more  passage, 
however,  I  cannot  resist.  The  good  Christabel  had  been  under- 
going a  trance  in  the  arms  of  the  wicked  witch  Geraldine  : 


COLERIDGE.  205 


A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen, 

O  Geraldine  !  since  arms  of  thine 
Have  been  the  lovely  lady's  prison. 

O  Geraldine  !  one  hour  was  thine — 
Thou  hast  thy  will  !     By  tarn  and  rill — 
The  night-birds  all  that  hour  were  still. 


(An  appalling  fancy) 

But  now  they  are  jubilant  anew, 

From  cliff  and  tower  tu-whoo  !  tu-whoo ! 

Tu-whoo  !  tu-whoo  !  from  wood  and  fell. 

And  see  !  the  lady  Christabel 

(This,  observe,  begins  a  new  paragraph,  with  a  break  in  the 
rhyme) 

Gathers  herself  from  out  her  trance ; 
Her  limbs  relax,  her  countenance 
Grows  sad  and  soft;  the  smooth  thin  lids 
Close  o'er  her  eyes  ;  and  tears  she  sheds — 
Large  tears  that  leave  the  lashes  bright .' 
And  oft  the  while  she  seems  to  smile, 
As  infants  at  a  sudden  light. 

Yea,  she  doth  smile,  and  she  doth  weep, 
Like  a  youthful  hermitess 
Beauteous  in  a  wilderness, 

Who  praying  always,  prays  in  sleep. 
And,  if  she  move  unquietly, 
Perchance  't  is  but  the  blood  so  free 
Comes  back  and  tingles  in  her  feet. 
No  doubt  she  hath  a  vision  sweet : 
What  if  her  guardian  spirit 't  were  ? 
What  if  she  knew  her  mother  near  ? 
But  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes, 

The  saints  will  aid,  if  men  will  call, 

For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all. 

We  see  how  such  a  poet  obtains  his  music.  Such  forms  of 
melody  can  proceed  only  from  the  most  beautiful  inner  spirit  of 
sympathy  and  imagination.  He  sympathizes,  in  his  universality, 
with  antipathy  itself.  If  Regan  or  Goneril  had  been  a  young 
and  handsome  witch  of  the  times  of  chivalry,  and  attuned  her 


205  COLERIDGE. 


violence  to  craft,  or  betrayed  it  in  venomous  looks,  she  could 
not  have  beaten  the  soft- voiced,  appalling  spells,  or  sudden,  snake- 
eyed  glances  of  the  lady  Geraldine, — looks  which  the  innocent 
Christabel,  in  her  fascination,  feels  compelled  to  "  imitate." 

A  snake's  small  eye  blinks  dull  and  shy, 
And  the  lady's  eyes  they  shrank  in  her  head, 
Each  shrank  up  to  a  serpent's  eye  ; 
And  with  somewhat  of  malice  and  more  of  dread, 
At  Christabel  she  look'd  askance. 
***** 

The  maid  devoid  of  guile  and  sin 

I  know  not  how,  in  fearful  wise, 

So  deeply  had  she  drunken  in 

That  look,  those  shrunken  serpent  eyes, 

That  all  her  features  were  resign'd 

To  this  sole  image  in  her  mind, 

And  passively  did  imitate 

That  look  of  dull  and  treacherous  hate. 

This  is  as  exquisite  in  its  knowledge  of  the  fascinating  ten- 
dencies of  fear  as  it  is  in  its  description.  And  what  can  surpass 
a  line  quoted  already  in  the  Essay  (but  I  must  quote  it  again !) 
for  very  perfection  of  grace  and  sentiment  ? — the  line  in  the 
passage  where  Christabel  is  going  to  bed,  before  she  is  aware 
that  her  visitor  is  a  witch. 

Quoth  Christabel,— So  let  it  be  ! 
And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 

Oh  !  it  is  too  kite  now ;  and  habit  and  self-love  blinded  me  at 
the  time,  and  I  did  not  know  (much  as  I  admired  him)  how  great 
a  poet  lived  in  that  grove  at  Highgate  ;  or  I  would  have  cultivat- 
ed its  walks  more,  as  I  might  have  done,  and  endeavored  to  return 
him,  with  my  gratitude,  a  small  portion  of  the  delight  his  verses 
have  given  me. 

I  must  add,  that  I  do  not  think  Coleridge's  earlier  poems  at  all 
equal  to  the  rest.  Many,  indeed,  I  do  not  care  to  read  a  second 
time  ;  but  there  are  some  ten  or  a  dozen,  of  which  I  never  tire, 
and  which  will  one  day  make  a  small  and  precious  volume  to 


COLERIDGE  207 


put  in  the  pockets  of  all  enthusiasts  in  poetry,  and  endure  with 
the  language.  Five  of  these  are  The  Ancient  Mariner,  Christa- 
bel,  Kubla  Khan,  Genevieve,  and  Youth  and  Age.  Some,  that 
more  personally  relate  to  the  poet,  will  be  added  for  the  love  of 
him,  not  omitting  the  Visit  of  the  Gods,  from  Schiller,  and  the 
famous  passage  on  the  Heathen  Mythology,  also  from  Schiller. 
A  short  life,  a  portrait,  and  some  other  engravings  perhaps,  will 
complete  the  book,  after  the  good  old  fashion  of  Cooke's  and 
Bell's  editions  of  the  Poets  ;  and  then,  like  the  contents  of  the  Jew 
of  Malta's  casket,  there  will  be 

Infinite  riches  in  a  little  room. 


LOVE  ;  OR,  GENEVIEVE. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 

Are  all  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 

When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 

The  moonlight  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve  ; 

And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

She  leant  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 

She  stood  and  listen'd  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope!  my  joy .'  my  Genevieve 

She  loves  me  best  whene'er  J  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 


208  COLERIDGE. 


I  play'd  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 

An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 

With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace, 

For  well  she  knew  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 

And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  woo'd 
The  lady  of  the  land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pin' d,  and — ah  ! 

The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love, 

Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 

With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace, 

And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gaz'd 
Too  fondly  on  her  face  ! 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 

That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  knight, 
And  that  he  cross'd  the  mountain-woods, 

Nor  rested  day  nor  night : 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 

And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, 

There  came  and  look'd  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 

And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  fiend, 
This  miserable  knight! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leap'd  amid  a  murderous  band, 

And  sav'd  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  lady  of  the  land  ! 

And  how  she  wept  and  claspt  his  knees ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 


COLERIDGE.  209 


And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain ; 

And  that  she  m'rs'd  him  in  a  cave  ; 

*...«  now  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves 

A  dying  man  he  lay. 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reach'd 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 

My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturb'd  her  soul  with  pity. 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 

Had  thrill'd  my  guileless  Genevieve  ; 

The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 

And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long. 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
*  She  blush'd  with  love  and  virgin  shame , 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heav'd — she  stept  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept 

Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye, 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclos'd  me  in  her  arms, 
^phe  press'd  me  with  a  meek  embrace : 

And  bending  back  her  head,  looted  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'  Twas  partly  love  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  't  was  a  bashful  art 

That  Imight  rather  feel  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

1  calm'd  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride, 
15 


i.j  COLERIDGE 


And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 
My  own,  my  beauteous  bride  ! 

I  can  hardly  say  a  word  upon  this  poem  for  very  admiration. 
I  must  observe,  however,  that  one  of  the  charms  of  it  consists 
in  the  numerous  repetitions  and  revolvings  of  the  words,  one  on 
the  other,  as  if  taking  delight  in  their  own  beauty. 


KUBLA  KUAN. 

SUGGESTED   TO   THE   AUTHOR  BY  A  PASSAGE   IN  PURCHAs's  PILGRIMAGE. 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan' 

A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree, 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round ; 
And  here  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills* 
Where  blossom'd  many  an  incense-bearing  tree ; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh,  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 

Down  the  green  hill,  athwart  a  cedarn  cover  ! 

A  savage  place!  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover  ! 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  mor    ptly  was  forc'd: 

Amid  whose  swift  half-mfcei^iitted  burst 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thrasher's  flail : 

And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks,  at  once  and  ever, 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion, 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 

Then  reach'd  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean: 


COLERIDGE.  211 


And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war.2 
The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves ; 
Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome,  with  caves  of  ice  ! 
A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 
In  a  vision  once  I  saw: 
It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 
And  on  her  dulcimer  she  play'd, 
Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 
Could  I  revive  within  me 
Her  symphony  and  song, 
To  such  a  deep  delight 't  would  win  me, 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome  !  those  caves  of  ice! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware  !  Beware  ! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair  ! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

»  "  In  Xanadu." — I  think  I  recollect  a  variation  of  this  stanza, 
as  follows: — 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

A  stately  pleasure-house  ordain, 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

Down  to  a  sunless  main. 

The  nice-eared  poet  probably  thought  there  were  too  many 
ns  in  these  rhymes  ;  and  man  and  main  are  certainly  not  the  best 
neighbors :  yet  there  is  such  an  open,  sounding,  and  stately  into* 
nation  in  the  words  pleasure-house  ordain,  and  it  is  so  superior 
to  pleasure-dome  decree,  that  I  am  not  sure  I  would  not  give  up 
the  correctness  of  the  other  terminations  to  retain  it. 

But  what  a  grand  flood  is  this,  flowing  down  through  measure- 
less caverns  to  a  sea  without  a  sun !   I  know  no  other  sea  equal 


212  COLERIDGE. 


to  it,  except  Keats's,  in  his  Ode  to  a  Nightingale ;  and  none  can 
surpass  that. 

2  "  Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war."— Was  ever  anything  more 
wild,  and  remote,  and  majestic,  than  this  fiction  of  the  "  ances- 
tral voices?"  Methinks  I  hear  them,  out  of  the  blackness  of 
the  past. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

Verse,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying, 
Where  hope  clung  feeding  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine  !     Life  went  a-Maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 
When  I  was  young  ! 

When  I  was  young  ?    Ah,  woful  when! 
Ah,  for  the  change  'twixt  now  and  then ! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands, 
How  lightly  then  itflasKd  along! — 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide ! 
Naught  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather, 
When  youth  and  I  lived  in  't  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely  ;  Love  is  flower-like: 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree  ; 
O  the  joys  that  came  down  shower-like, 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 
Ere  I  was  old  ! 

Ere  J  was  old  ?  Ah,  woful  ere  ! 
Which  tells  me  Youth's  no  longer  here ! 
0  Youth  !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 
'T  is  known,  that  thou  and  1  were  one ; 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  deceit — 
It  cannot  be  that  thou  art  gone  ! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toll'd, 


COLERIDGE.  21S 


And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold  ! 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  ? 
I  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  alter  d  size  ; 
But  springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips, 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes  ! 
Life  is  but  thought ;  so  think  I  will, 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still. 

This  is  one  of  the  most  perfect  poems,  for  style,  feeling,  and 
everything,  that  ever  were  written. 


THE  HEATHEN  DIVINITIES  MERGED  INTO  ASTROLOGY. 

FROM   THE    TRANSLATION    OF    SCHILLER'S    FICCOLOMINI. 

— Fable  is  Love's  world,  his  home,  his  birthplace: 

Delightedly  dwells  he  'mong  fays  and  talismans, 

And  spirits  ;  and  delightedly  believes 

Divinities,  being  himself  divine. 

The  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets, 

The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion, 

The  power,  the  beauty,  and  the  majesty, 

That  had  her  haunts  in  dale,  or  piny  mountain, 

Or  forest  by  slow  stream,  or  pebbly  spring, 

Or  chasms  and  wat'ry  depths ;  all  these  have  vanish'd  , 

They  live  no  longer  in  the  faith  of  reason  ; 

But  still  the  heart  doth  need  a  language  ;  still 

Doth  the  old  instinct  bring  back  the  old  names ; 

And  to  yon  starry  world  they  now  are  gone, 

Spirits  or  gods,  that  used  to  share  this  earth 

With  man  as  with  their  friend  ;  and  to  the  lover 

Yonder  they  move  ;  from  yonder  visible  sky 

Shoot  influence  down :  and  even  at  this  day 

'  T  is  Jupiter  who  brings  whatever  is  great, 

And  Venus  who  brings  everything  that  'sfatr 


214  COLERIDGE. 


WORK  WITHOUT  HOPE. 

LINES    COMPOSED    21sT    FEBRUARY,  1827. 

All  Nature  seems  at  work.     Stags  leave  their  lair— 

The  bees  are  stirring — birds  are  on  the  wing — 
And  Winter,  slumbering  in  the  open  air, 

Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  Spring  ! 
And  I,  the  while,  the  sole  unbusy  thing, 
Nor  honey  make,  nor  pair,  nor  build,  nor  sing. 
Yet  well  I  ken  the  banko  where  amaranths  blow, 
Have  traced  the  fount  whence  streams  of  nectar  flow. 
Bloom,  O  ye  amaranths  !  bloom  for  whom  ye  may; 
For  me  ye  bloom  not !     Glide,  rich  streams,  away  ! 
With  lips  unbrighten'd,  wreathless  brow,  I  stroll : 
And  would  you  learn  the  spells  that  drowse  my  soul ! 
Work  without  hope  draws  nectar  in  a  sieve, 
And  hope  without  an  object  cannot  live. 

I  insert  this  poem  on  account  of  the  exquisite  imaginative 
picture  in  the  third  and  fourth  lines,  and  the  terseness  and  melo- 
dy of  the  whole.  Here  we  have  a  specimen  of  a  perfect  style, — 
unsuperfluous,  straightforward,  suggestive,  impulsive,  and  se- 
rene. But  how  the  writer  of  such  verses  could  talk  of  "  work 
without  hope,"  I  cannot  say.  What  work  had  he  better  to  do 
than  to  write  more  1  and  what  hope  but  to  write  more  still,  and 
delight  himself  and  the  world  ?  But  the  truth  is,  his  mind  was 
too  active  and  self-involved  to  need  the  diversion  of  work  ;  and 
his  body,  the  case  that  contained  it,  too  sluggish  with  sedentary 
living  to  like  it ;  and  so  he  persuaded  himself  that  if  his  writ- 
ings did  not  sell,  they  were  of  no  use.  Are  we  to  disrespect 
these  self-delusions  in  such  a  man  ?  No;  but  to  draw  from  them 
salutary  cautions  for  ourselves, — his  inferiors. 


SHELLEY.  215 


SHELLEY, 

BORN,    1792, DIED,    1822. 


Among  the  many  reasons  which  his  friends  had  to  deplore  the 
premature  death  of  this  splendid  poet  and  noble-hearted  man, 
the  greatest  was  his  not  being  able  to  repeat,  to  a  more  attentive 
public,  his  own  protest,  not  only  against  some  of  his  earlier 
effusions  (which  he  did  in  the  newspapers),  but  against  all  which 
he  had  written  in  a  wailing  and  angry,  instead  of  an  invaria- 
bly calm,  loving,  and  therefore  thoroughly  helping  spirit.  His 
works,  in  justice  to  himself,  require  either  to  be  winnowed  from 
what  he  disliked,  or  to  be  read  with  the  remembrance  of  that 
dislike.  He  had  sensibility  almost  unique,  seemingly  fitter  for  a 
planet  of  a  different  sort,  or  in  more  final  condition,  than  ours  : 
he  has  said  of  himself, — so  delicate  was  his  organization, — that 
he  could 

"  Hardly  bear 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour  ;" 

and  the  impatience  which  he  vented  for  some  years  against  that 
rough  working  towards  good,  called  evil,  and  which  he  carried 
out  into  conduct  too  hasty,  subjected  one  of  the  most  naturally 
pious  of  men  to  charges  which  hurt  his  name,  and  thwarted  his 
philanthropy.  Had  he  lived,  he  would  have  done  away  all 
mistake  on  these  points,  and  made  everybody  know  him  for 
what  he  was, — a  man  idolized  by  his  frie'Hs, — studious,  tempe- 
rate, of  the  gentlest  life  and  conversation,  and  willing  to  have 
died  to  do  the  world  a  service.  For  my  part,  I  never  can  men- 
tion his  name  without  a  transport  of  love  and  gratitude.  I 
rejoice  to  have  partaken  of  his  cares,  and  to  be  both  suffering 
and  benefiting  from  him  at  this  moment ;  and  whenever  I  think 
of  a  future  state,  and  of  the  great  and  good  Spirit  that  must 


216  SHELLEY. 


pervade  it,  one  of  the  first  faces  I  humbly  hope  to  see  there,  is 
that  of  the  kind  and  impassioned  man,  whose  intercourse  conferred 
on  me  the  title  of  the  Friend  of  Shelley. 

The  finest  poetry  of  Shelley  is  so  mixed  up  with  moral  and  po- 
litical speculation,  that  I  found  it  impossible  to  give  more  than  the 
following  extracts,  in  accordance  with  the  purely  poetical  de- 
sign of  the  present  volume.  Of  the  poetry  of  reflection  and  tra- 
gic pathos,  he  has  abundance  ;  but  even  such  fanciful  produc- 
tions as  the  Sensitive  Plant  and  the  Witch  of  Atlas  are  full  of 
metaphysics,  and  would  require  a  commentary  of  explanation. 
The  short  pieces  and  passages,  however,  before  us,  are  so  beau- 
tiful, that  they  may  well  stand  as  the  representatives  of  the  whole 
powers  of  his  mind  in  the  region  of  pure  poetry.  In  sweetness 
(and  not  even  there  in  passages)  the  Ode  to  the  Skylark  is  infe- 
rior only  to  Coleridge, — in  rapturous  passion  to  no  man.  It  is 
like  the  bird  it  sings, — enthusiastic,  enchanting,  profuse,  contin- 
uous, and  alone, — small,  but  filling  the  heavens.  One  of  the 
triumphs  of  poetry  is  to  associate  its  remembrance  with  the  beau- 
ties of  nature.  There  are  probably  no  lovers  of  Homer  and 
Shakspeare,  who,  when  looking  at  the  moon,  do  not  often  call  to 
mind  the  descriptions  in  the  eighth  book  of  the  Iliad  and  the  fifth 
act  of  the  Merchant  of  Venice.  The  nightingale  (in  England) 
may  be  said  to  have  belonged  exclusively  to  Milton  (see  page 
178),  till  a  dying  young  poet  of  our  own  day  partook  of  the 
honor  by  the  production  of  his  exquisite  Ode  :  and  notwithstand- 
ing Shakspeare's  lark  singing  "  at  heaven's  gate,"  the  longer 
effusion  of  Shelley  will  be  identified  with  thoughts  of  the  bird 
hereafter,  in  the  minds  of  all  who  are  susceptible  of  its  beauty. 
What  a  pity  he  did  not  live  to  produce  a  hundred  such ;  or  to 
mingle  briefer  lyrics,  as  beautiful  as  Shakspeare's,  with  trage- 
dies which  Shakspeare  himself  might  have  welcomed  !  for  as- 
suredly, had  he  lived,  he  would  have  been  the  greatest  dramatic 
writer  since  the  days  of  Elizabeth,  if  indeed  he  has  not  abun- 
dantly proved  himself  such  in  his  tragedy  of  the  Cenci.  Unfor- 
tunately, in  his  indignation  against  every  conceivable  form  of 
oppression,  he  took  a  subject  for  that  play  too  much  resembling 
one  which  Shakspeare  had  taken  in  his  youth,  and  still  more 
unsuitable  to  the  stage  ;  otherwise,  besides  grandeur  and  terror 


SHELLEY.  217 


there  are  things  in  it  lovely  as  heart  can  worship;  and  the  au- 
thor showed  himself  able  to  draw  both  men  and  women,  whose 
names  would  have  been  "  familiar  in  our  mouths  as  household 
words."  The  utmost  might  of  gentleness,  and  of  the  sweet 
habitudes  of  domestic  affection,  was  never  more  balmily  im- 
pressed through  the  tears  of  the  reader,  than  in  the  unique  and 
divine  close  of  that  dreadful  tragedy.  Its  loveliness,  being  that 
of  the  highest  reason,  is  superior  to  the  madness  of  all  the  crime 
that  has  preceded  it,  and  leaves  nature  in  a  state  of  reconcile- 
ment with  her  ordinary  course.  The  daughter,  who  is  going 
forth  with  her  mother  to  execution,  utters  these  final  words  : — 

Give  yourself  no  unnecessary  pain, 

My  dear  Lord  Cardinal.     Here,  mother,  tie 

My  girdle  for  me,  and  bind  up  this  hair 

In  any  simple  knot.     Ay,  that  does  well ; 

And  yours,  I  sec  is  coming  down.     How  often 

Have  we  done  this  for  one  another  !  now 

We  shall  not  do  it  any  more.     My  Lord, 

We  are  quite  ready,      Well, — 't  is  very  well. 

The  force  of  simplicity  and  moral  sweetness  cannot  go  fur- 
ther than  this.  But  in  general,  if  Coleridge  is  the  sweetest  of 
our  poets,  Shelley  is  at  once  the  most  ethereal  and  most  gor- 
geous ;  the  one  who  has  clothed  his  thoughts  in  draperies  of  the 
most  evanescent  and  most  magnificent  words  and  imagery.  Not 
Milton  himself  is  more  learned  in  Grecisms,  or  nicer  in  etymolo- 
gical propriety ;  and  nobody,  throughout,  has  a  style  so  Orphic 
and  primaeval.  His  poetry  is  as  full  of  mountains,  seas,  and  skies, 
of  light,  and  darkness,  and  the  seasons,  and  all  the  elements  of 
our  being,  as  if  Nature  herself  had  written  it,  with  the  creation 
and  its  hopes  newly  cast  around  her ;  not,  it  must  be  confessed, 
without  too  indiscriminate  a  mixture  of  great  and  small,  and  a 
want  of  sufficient  shade, — a  certain  chaotic  brilliancy,  "  darK 
with  excess  of  light."  Shelley  (in  the  verses  to  a  Lady  with  a 
Guitar)  might  well  call  himself  Ariel.  AH  the  more  enjoying 
part  of  his  poetry  is  Ariel, — the  "  delicate"  yet  powerful  "spi- 
rit," jealous  of  restraint,  yet  able  to  serve  ;  living  in  the  ele- 
ments and  the  flowers  ;  treading  the  "  ooze  of  the  salt  deep,"  and 
running  "on  the  sharp  wind  of  the  north;"  feeling  for  creatures 


218  SHELLEY. 


unlike  himself;  "  flaming  amazement"  on  them  too,  and  singing 
exquisitest  songs.  Alas !  and  he  suffered  for  years,  as  Ariel 
did  in  the  cloven  pine  :  but  now  he  is  out  of  it,  and  serving  the 
purposes  of  Beneficence  with  a  calmness  befitting  his  knowledge 
and  his  love. 


TO  A  SKYLAHK. 


Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart, 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art.' 


Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ! 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing,  still  dost  soar :  and  soaring,  ever  singest 

in. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  embodied  joy,  whose  race  has  just  begun 


The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  round  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 

In  the  broad  day-light 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 


Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 


SHELLEY.  219 

VI. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 


What  thou  art  we  know  not. 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody 


Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not. 


Like  a  high-born  maiden2 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower. 


Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  adrial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view. 

XI. 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged  thieves 


Sound  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  twinkling  grass, 


220  SHELLEY. 


Rain-awakened  flowers, 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass 

zm. 

Teach  me,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine : 
i  aave  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

XIV. 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Match'd  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thin?  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 


What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  1 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  1  What  ignorance  of  pain  "> 


With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest ;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety 


Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  note  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 


We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not ; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught : 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  which  tell  of  saddest  thought. 


SHELLEY.  221 


Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

xx. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground!3 

xxi. 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness, 

That  thy  brain  must  know; 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now 

"  In  the  spring  of  1820,"  says  Mrs.  Shelley,  "  we  spent  a  wee* 
or  two  near  Leghorn,  borrowing  the  house  of  some  friends,  who 
were  absent  on  a  journey  to  England.  It  was  on  a  beautiful 
summer  evening,  while  wandering  among  the  lanes  where  myrtle 
hedges  were  the  bowers  of  the  fire-flies,  that  we  heard  the  carolling 
of  the  skylark,  which  inspired  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his  po- 
ems."— Moxon's  edition  of  1840,  p.  278. 

Shelley  chose  the  measure  of  this  poem  with  great  felicity. 
The  earnest  hurry  of  the  four  short  lines,  followed  by  the  long 
effusiveness  of  the  Alexandrine,  expresses  the  eagerness  and 
continuity  of  the  lark.  There  is  a  luxury  of  the  latter  kind  in 
Shakspeare's  song,  produced  by  the  reduplication  of  the 
rhymes  : — 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chalic'd  flowers  that  lies  : 
And  winking  mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes  : 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 

!\1  y  lady  sweet,  arise. 


222  SHELLEY. 


"  Chalic'd  flowers  that  lies,"  is  an  ungrammatical  license  in 
use  with  the  most  scholarly  writers  of  the  time  ;  and,  to  say  the 
truth,  it  was  a  slovenly  one  ;  though  there  is  all  the  difference 
in  the  world  between  the  license  of  power  and  that  of  poverty. 

1  "  In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art." — Durirjo-  the  preva- 
lence of  the  unimaginative  and  unmusical  poetry  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, it  was  thought  an  Alexandrine  should  always  be  cut  in 
halves,  for  the  greater  sweetness  ;  that  is  to  say,  monotony. 
The  truth  is,  the  pause  may  be  thrown  anywhere,  or  even  en- 
tirely omitted,  as  in  the  unhesitating  and  characteristic  instance 
before  us.  See  also  the  eighth  stanza.  The  Alexandrines 
throughout  the  poem  evince  the  nicest  musical  feeling. 

2  Like  a  high-born  maiden 
In  a  palace  tower. 

Mark  the  accents  on  the  word  "  love-laden,"  so  beautifully 
carrying  on  the  stress  into  the  next  line — 

Soothing  her  Ibve-laden 
Sdul  in  secret  hour. 

The  music  of  the  whole  stanza  is  of  the  loveliest  sweetness ;  of 
energy  in  the  midst  of  softness  ;  of  dulcitude  and  variety.  Not 
a  sound  of  a  vowel  in  the  quatrain  resembles  that  of  another, 
except  in  the  rhymes  ;  while  the  very  sameness  cr  repetition  of 
the  sounds  in  the  Alexandrine  intimates  the  revolvement  and 
continuity  of  the  music  which  the  lady  is  playing.  Observe, 
for  instance  (for  nothing  is  too  minute  to  dwell  upon  in  such 
beauty),  the  contrast  of  the  i  and  o  in  "high-born  ;"  the  diffe- 
rence of  the  a  in  "  maiden"  from  that  in  "  palace  ;"  the  strong 
opposition  of  maiden  to  tower  (making  the  rhyme  more  vigorous 
in  proportion  to  the  general  softness)  ;  then  the  new  differences 
in  soothing,  Zoue-laden,  soul,  and  secret,  all  diverse  from  one 
another,  and  from  the  whole  strain ;  and  finally,  the  strain  it- 
self,  winding  up  in  the  Alexandrine  with  a  cadence  of  particular 
repetitions,  which  constitutes  nevertheless  a  new  difference  on 
that  account,  and  by  the  prolongation  of  the  tone. 


SHELLEY.  223 


"  It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  love  is  throned." 

There  is  another  passage  of  Shakspeare  which  it  more  particu- 
larly calls  to  mind  ; — the 

Ditties  highly  penn'd, 
Sung  by  a  fair  queen  in  a  summer  bower, 
With  ravishing  division  to  her  lute. 

But  as  Shakspeare  was  not  writing  lyrically  in  this  passage, 
nor  desirous  to  fill  it  with  so  much  love  and  sentiment,  it  is  no 
irreverence  to  say  that  the  modern  excels  it.  The  music  is  car- 
ried on  into  the  first  two  lines  of  the  next  stanza  : — 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 
In  a  dell  of  dew  ; 

a  melody  as  happy  in  its  alliteration  as  in  what  may  be  termed 
its  counterpoint.  And  the  coloring  of  this  stanza  is  as  beautiful 
as  the  music. 

3"  Thou  scornerof  the  ground."— A  most  noble  and  emphatic  close 
of  the  stanza.  Not  that  the  lark,  in  any  vulgar  sense  of  the 
word,  "  scorns"  the  ground,  for  he  dwells  upon  it :  but  that,  like 
the  poet,  nobody  can  take  leave  of  common-place-s  with  more 
heavenly  triumph. 


A  GARISH  DAY. 

(SAID    BY   A   POTENT    RUFFIAN.) 

The  all-beholding  sun  yet  shines ;  I  hear 

A  busy  stir  of  men  about  the  streets  ; 

I  see  the  bright  sky  through  the  window-panes  ; 

It  is  a  garish,  broad,  and  peering  day ; 

Loud,  light,  suspicious,  full  of  eyes  and  ears  ; 

And  every  little  corner,  nook,  and  hole, 

Is  penetrated  with  the  insolent  light. 

Come,  darkness ! 


224  SHELLEY. 


CONTEMPLATION  OF  VIOLENCE. 

(by  a  man  not  bad.) 

Spare  me  now. 
I  am  as  one  lost  in  a  midnight  wood, 
Who  dares  not  ask  some  harmless  passenger 
The  path  across  the  wilderness,  lest  he, 
As  my  thoughts  are,  should  be  a  murderer 


A  ROCK  AND  A  CHASM. 

I  remember, 
Two  miles  on  this  side  of  the  fort,  the  road 
Crosses  a  deep  ravine  :  't  is  rough  and  narrow> 
And  winds  with  short  turns  down  the  precipice ; 
j.  nd  in  its  depth  there  is  a  mighty  rock, 
Wi.ich  has,  from  unimaginable  years, 
Sustain  d  itself  with  terror  and  with  toil 
Over  a  gulf,  and  ivilh  the  agony 
With  which  it  clings  seems  slowly  coming  down; 
Even  as  a  wretched  soul,  hour  after  hour, 
Clings  to  the  mass  of  life;  yet  clinging,  leans, 
And,  leaning,  makes  more  dark  the  dread  abyss 
In  which  it  fears  to  fall.     Beneath  this  crag, 
Huge  as  despair,  as  if  in  weariness, 
The  melancholy  mountain  yawns.     Below 
You  hear,  but  see  not,  an  impetuous  torrent 
Raging  among  the  caverns :  and  a  bridge 
Crosses  the  chasm ;  and  high  above  these  grow, 
With  intersecting  trunks,  from  crag  to  crag, 
Cedars,  and  yews,  and  pines  ;  whose  tangled  hair 
Is  matted  in  one  solid  roof  of  shad^ 
By  the  dark  ivy's  twine.     At  noon-day  here 
'  Tis  twilight,  and  at  sunset  blackest  night 


SHELLEY.  225 


LOVELINESS  INEXPRESSIBLE. 

Sweet  lamp  !  my  moth-like  muse  has  burnt  its  wings ; 

Or,  like  a  dying  swan  who  soars  and  sings, 

Young  Love  should  teach  Time  in  his  own  grey  style 

All  that  thou  art.     Art  thou  not  void  of  guile  ? 

A  lovely  soul  form'd  to  be  blest  and  bless  ? 

A  well  of  seal'd  and  secret  happiness, 

Whose  waters  like  blithe  light  and  music  are, 

Vanquishing  dissonance  and  gloom  ? — a  star 

Which  moves  not  in  the  moving  heavens,  alone  ? 

A  smile  amid  dark  frowns  ? — a  gentle  tone 

Amid  rude  voices  ? — a  beloved  sight  ? 

A  Solitude,  a  Refuge,  a  Delight  ? 

A  lute,  which  those  whom  love  has  taught  to  play, 

Make  music  on,  to  soothe  the  roughest  day, 

And  lull  fond  grief  asleep  ? — a  buried  treasure  ? 

A  cradle  of  young  thoughts  of  wingless  pleasure  ? 

A  violet-shrouded  grave  of  wo  ?     I  measure 

The  world  of  fancies,  seeking  one  like  thee, 

And  find — alas  !  mine  own  infirmity. 


EXISTENCE  IN  SPACE. 

Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-colored  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  eternity. 


DEVOTEDNESS  UNREQUIRING. 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it ; 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdain'  d 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
16 


226  SHELLEY. 


And  pity  from  thee  more  clear 
Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love ; 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above, 

And  the  Heaven's  reject  not  ? 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow  ; 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow. 


TO  A  LADY  WITH  A  GUITAR. 

Ariel  to  Miranda : — Take 

This  slave  of  music,  for  the  sake 

Of  him  who  is  the  slave  of  thee ; 

And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 

In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou, 

Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow, 

Till  joy  denies  itself  again, 

And,  too  intense,  is  turned  to  pain. 

For  by  permission  and  command 

Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand, 

Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 

Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spoken  : 

Your  guadian  spirit,    Ariel,  who 

From  life  to  life  must  still  pursue 

Your  happiness,  for  thus  alone 

Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  own  : 

From  Prospero's  enchanted  cell, 

As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 

To  the  throne  of  Naples  he 

Lit  you  o'er  the  trackless  sea, 

Flitting  on,  your  prow  before, 

Like  a  living  meteor : 

When  you  die,  the  silent  moon 

In  her  interlunar  swoon, 

Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 

Than  deserted  Ariel : 

When  you  live  again  on  earth, 

Like  an  unseen  star  of  birth, 


SHELLEY.  227 


Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea 

Of  life  from  your  nativity. 

Many  changes  have  been  run, 

Since  Ferdinand  ana  you  begun 

Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 

Has  track'd  your  steps  and  serv'd  your  will. 

Now  in  humbler,  happier  lot, 

This  is  all  remember  d  not ; 

And  now,  alas  !  the  poor  sprite  is 

Imprisoned  for  some  fault  of  his 

In  a  body  like  a  grave. 

From  you,  he  only  dares  to  crave, 

For  his  service  and  his  sorrow, 

A  smile  to-day — a  song  to-morrow. 

The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought, 

To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 

FelPd  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 

The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 

Mock'd  in  that  repose  divine 

On  the  wind-swept  Appenine : 

And  dreaming,  some  of  autumn  past, 

And  some  of  spring  approaching  fast, 

And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers, 

And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers, 

And  all  of  love :  and  so  this  tree — 

O  that  such  our  death  may  be  ! — 

Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain, 

To  live  in  happier  form  again  : 

From  which,  beneath  Heaven's  fairest  star, 

The  artist  wrought  this  lov'd  Guitar, 

And  taught  it  justly  to  reply 

To  all  who  question  skilfully, 

In  language  gentle  as  thine  own; 

Whispering  in  enamor'd  tone 

Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells, 

And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells ; 

For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies 

Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies, 

Of  the  forest  and  the  mountains, 

And  the  many-voiced  fountains, 

The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills, 

The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills, 

The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 

The  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 

And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dew, 


228  SHELLEY. 


And  airs  of  evening  ;  and  it  knew 
That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound. 
Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round, 
As  it  floats  through  boundless  day, 
Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way : — 
All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 
To  those  who  cannot  question  well 
The  spirit  that  inhabits  it ; 
It  talks  according  to  the  wit 
Of  its  companions :  and  no  more 
Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before, 
By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 
These  secrets  of  an  elder  day. 
But,  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 
Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill, 
It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone 
For  our  beloved  friend  alone. 

This  is  a  Catullian  melody  of  the  first  water.  The  transform- 
ation of  the  dreaming  wood  of  the  tree  into  a  guitar  was  proba- 
bly suggested  by  Catullus's  Dedication  of  the  Galley, — a  poem 
with  which  I  know  he  was  conversant,  and  which  was  particu- 
larly calculated  to  please  him  ;  for  it  records  the  consecration 
of  a  favorite  old  sea-boat  to  the  Dioscuri.  The  modern  poet's 
imagination  beats  the  ancient ;  but  Catullus  equals  him  in 
graceful  flow  ;  and  there  is  one  very  Shelleian  passage  in  the 
original : — 

Ubi  iste,  post  phaselus,  antea  fuit 
Comata  silva :  nam  Cytorio  in  jugo 
Loquente  saepe  sibilum  edidit  coma. 

For  of  old,  what  now  you  see 

A  galley,  was  a  leafy  tree 

On  the  Cytorian  heights,  and  there 

Talk'd  to  the  wind  with  whistling  hair 


SHELLEY.  229 


MUSIC,  MEMORY,  AND  LOVE. 

TO   . 

Music,  when   soft  voices  die,1 

Vibrates  in  the  memory; 

Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 

Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken ; 

Rose-leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 

Are  heap'd  for  the  beloved's  bed  ; 

And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone, 

Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

i  "  Music,  when  soft  voices  die." — This  song  is  a  great  favorite 
with  musicians  :  and  no  wonder.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  never 
wrote  anything  of  the  kind  more  lovely. 


230  KEATS. 


KEATS, 

BORN,   1796, DIED,  1821. 


Keats  was  a  born  poet  of  the  most  poetical  kind.  All  his  feel- 
ings  came  to  him  through  a  poetical  medium,  or  were  speedily- 
colored  by  it.  He  enjoyed  a  jest  as  heartily  as  any  one,  and 
sympathized  with  the  lowliest  common-place ;  but  the  next 
minute  his  thoughts  were  in  a  garden  of  enchantment,  with 
nymphs,  and  fauns,  and  shapes  of  exalted  humanity  ; 

Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace. 

It  might  be  said  of  him,  that  he  never  beheld  an  oak-tree  with- 
out seeing  the  Dryad.  His  fame  may  now  forgive  the  critics 
who  disliked  his  politics,  and  did  not  understand  his  poetry. 
Repeated  editions  of  him.  in  England,  France,  and  America, 
attest  its  triumphant  survival  of  all  obloquy  ;  and  there  can  be 
no  doubt  that  he  has  taken  a  permanent  station  among  the  Brit- 
ish Poets,  of  a  very  high,  if  not  thoroughly  mature,  description. 
Keats's  early  poetrjr,  indeed,  partook  plentifully  of  the  exube- 
rance of  youth;  and  even  in  most  of  his  later,  his  sensibility, 
sharpened  by  mortal  illness,  tended  to  a  morbid  excess.  His 
region  is  "  a  wilderness  of  sweets," — flowers  of  all  hue,  and 
"weeds  of  glorious  feature," — where,  as  he  says,  the  luxuriant 
soil  brings 

The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth 

But  there  also  is  the  "  rain-scented  eglantine,"  and  bushes  of 
May-flowers,  with  bees,  and  myrtle,  and  bay, — and  endless 
paths  into  forests  haunted  with  the  loveliest  as  well  as  the  gentlest 


KEATS.  23] 


beings  ;  and  the  gods  live  in  the  distance,  amid  notes  of  majestic 
thunder.     I  do  not  say  that  no  "  surfeit"  is  ever  there  ;  but  I  do, 
that  there  is  no  end  to  the  "  nectared  sweets."     In  what  other 
English  poet  (however  superior  to   him  in  other  respects)  are 
you  so  certain  of  never  opening  a  page  without  lighting  upon  the 
loveliest  imagery  and  the  most  eloquent  expressions  1     Name 
one.     Compare  any  succession  of  their  pages  at  random,  and  see 
if  the  young  poet  is  not  sure  to  present  his  stock  of  beauty  ;  crude 
it  may  be,  in   many  instances  ;    too  indiscriminate  in  general  ; 
never,  perhaps,  thoroughly  perfect  in  cultivation  ;  but  there  it  is, 
exquisite  of  its  kind,  and  filling  envy  with  despair.     He  died  at 
five-and-twenty  ;  he  had  not  revised  his  earlier  works,  nor  given 
his  genius  its  last  pruning.     His  Endymion,  in  resolving  to  be 
free  from   all  critical   trammels,  had  no  versification  ;   and  his 
last  noble  fragment,  Hyperion,  is  not  faultless, — but  it  is  nearly 
so.     The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  betrays  morbidity  only  in  one  in* 
stance  (noticed  in  the  comment).     Even  in  his  earliest  produc- 
tions, which  are  to  be  considered  as  those  of  youth  just  emerging 
from  boyhood,  are  to  be  found  passages  of  as  masculine  a  beauty 
as  ever  were  written.     Witness  the   Sonnet  on  reading  Chap- 
man's Homer, — epical  in  the  splendor  and  dignity  of  its  images, 
and  terminating  with  the  noblest  Greek  simplicity.     Among  his 
finished  productions,  however,  of  any  length,  the  Eve  of  St.  Ag- 
nes still  appears  to  me  the  most  delightful  and  complete  speci- 
men of  his  genius.     It  stands  mid-way  between  his  most  sensi- 
tive ones  (which,  though  of  rare  beauty,  occasionally  sink  into 
feebleness)  and  the  less  generally  characteristic  majesty  of  the 
fragment  of  Hyperion.     Doubtless  his  greatest  poetry  is  to  be 
found  in  Hyperion ;  and  had  he  lived,  there  is  little  doubt  he 
would  have  written  chiefly  in  that  strain  ;   rising  superior  to  those 
languishments  of  love  which  made  the   critics  so  angry,  and 
which  they  might  so  easily  have  pardoned  at  his  time  of  life. 
But  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  had  already  bid  most  of  them  adieu, — 
exquisitely  loving  as  it  is.     It  is  young,  but  full-grown  poetry 
of    the    rarest  description;    graceful  as  the  beardless  Apollo; 
slowing  and  gorgeous  with  the  colors  of  romance.     I  have  there- 
fore  reprinted  the  whole  of  it  in  the  present  volume,  together 
with  the  comment  alluded  to  in  the  Preface ;  especially  as,  in 


J32  KEATS. 

\ddition  to  felicity  of  treatment,  its  subject  is  in  every  respect  a 
happy  one,  and  helps  to  "  paint"  this  our  bower  of"  poetry  with 
delight."  Melancholy,  it  is  true,  will  "break  in"  when  the 
reader  thinks  of  the  early  death  of  such  a  writer  ;  but  it  is  one  of 
the  benevolent  provisions  of  nature,  that  all  good  things  tend  to 
pleasure  in  the  recollection  ;  when  the  bitterness  of  their  loss  :'s 
past,  their  own  sweetness  embalms  them. 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever. 

While  writing  this  paragraph,  a  hand-organ  out-of-doors  has 
been  playing  one  of  the  mournfullest  and  loveliest  of  the  airs  of 
Bellini — another  genius  who  died  young.  The  sound  of  music 
always  gives  a  feeling  either  of  triumph  or  tenderness  to  the 
state  of  mind  in  which  it  is  heard  :  in  this  instance  it  seemed 
like  one  departed  spirit  come  to  bear  testimony  of  another,  and 
to  say  how  true  indeed  may  be  the  union  of  sorrowful  and  sweet 
recollections. 

Keats  knew  the  youthful  faults  of  his  poetry  as  Avell  as  any 
man,  as  the  reader  may  see  by  the  preface  to  Endymion,  and 
its  touching  though  manly  acknowledgment  of  them  to  critical 
candor.  I  have  this  moment  read  it  again,  after  a  lapse  of 
years,  and  have  been  astonished  to  think  how  anybody  could 
answer  such  an  appeal  to  the  mercy  of  strength,  with  the  cruelty 
of  weakness.  All  the  good  for  which  Mr.  Gilford  pretended  to 
be  zealous,  he  might  have  effected  with  pain  to  no  one,  and 
glory  to  himself;  and  therefore  all  the  evil  he  mixed  with  it 
was  of  his  own  making.  But  the  secret  at  the  bottom  of  such 
unprovoked  censure  is  exasperated  inferiority.  Young  poets, 
upon  the  whole, — at  least  very  young  poets, — had  better  not 
publish  at  all.  They  are  pretty  sure  to  have  faults;  and  jeal- 
ousy and  envy  are  sure  to  find  them  out,  and  wreak  upon  them 
their  own  disappointments.  The  critic  is  often  an  unsuccessful 
author,  almost  always  an  inferior  one  to  a  man  of  genius,  and 
possesses  his  sensibility  neither  to  beauty  nor  to  pain.  If  he 
does, — if  by  any  chance  he  is  a  man  of  genius  himself  (and 
such  things  have  been),  sure  and  certain  will  be  his  regret,  some 
day,  for  having  given  pains  which  he  might  have  turned  into 


KEATS.  233 


noble  pleasures ;  and  nothing  will  console  him  but  that  very 
charity  towards  himself,  the  grace  of  which  can  only  be  secured 
to  us  by  our  having  denied  it  to  no  one. 

Let  the  student  of  poetry  observe,  that  in  all  the  luxury  of 
the  Eve  of  Saint  Agnes  there  is  nothing  of  the  conventional 
craft  of  artificial  writers;  no  heaping  up  of  words  or  similes  for 
their  own  sakes  or  the  rhyme's  sake  ;  no  gaudy  common-places  ; 
no  borrowed  airs  of  earnestness  ;  no  tricks  of  inversion  ;  no 
substitution  of  reading  or  of  ingenious  thoughts  for  feeling  or 
spontaneity ;  no  irrelevancy  or  unfitness  of  any  sort.  All 
flows  out  of  sincerity  and  passion.  The  writer  is  as  much  in 
love  with  the  heroine  as  his  hero  is  ;  his  description  of  the 
painted  window,  however  gorgeous,  has  not  an  untrue  or  super- 
fluous word ;  and  the  only  speck  of  a  fault  in  the  whole  poem 
arises  from  an  excess  of  emotion. 


THE  EVE  OF  SAINT  AGNES.1 


St.  Agnes'  Eve — Ah  !  bitter  chill  it  was : 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold  ,-2 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold  ; 
Numb  were  the  beadsman's  fingers  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old. 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a  death 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he  saith  3 


His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man, 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degr-ees  : 
The  sculptur'd  dead  on  each  side  seem'd  to  freeze, 
Imprison 'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
He  passeth  by;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails 


234  KEATS. 


Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  music's  golden  tongue 
Flatter  d  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor  :5 
But  no ;  already  had  his  death-bell  rung : 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung : 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve : 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he,  for  his  soul's  reprieve ; 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to  grieve. 


That  ancient  beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
And  so  it  chanc'd  (for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro)  soon  up  aloft 

The  silver-snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide  ; 
The  level  chambers  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests  : 
And  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 

Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  2nd  cross-wise  on  their  breasti- 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The  brain,  new  stuff 'd,  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away, 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded  all  that  wintry  day 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare 


They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight , 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey' d  middle  of  the  night 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white : 
Nor  look  behind  or  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 


KEATS.  235 

vir. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  youthful  Madeline ; 
The  music,  yearning,  like  a  god  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard  ;  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by,  she  heeded  not  at  all ;  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tip-toe  amorous  cavalier, 
And  back  retired,  not  cool'd  by  high  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not ;  her  heart  was  otherwhere  ; 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 

VIII. 

She  danc'd  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short ; 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand :  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels  and  the  throng'd  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger  or  in  sport ; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn ; 
Hoodwink'd  with  faery  fancy  ;  all  amort, 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 

IX. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  linger'd  still.     Meantime  across  the  moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors 
Buttress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen, 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss  ; — in  sooth  such  things  have  been 


He  ventures  in,  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell ; 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  Love's  feverous  citadel. 
For  him  those  chambers  had  barbarian  hordes, 
Hyaena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage.     Not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 


Ah  !  happy  chance  !  the  aged  creature  came 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 


236  KEATS. 

To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torches'  light, 
Behind  a  broad  hall  pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland. 
He  startled  her  ;  but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand  : 
Saying,  "  Mercy,  Porphyro  !  hie  thee  from  this  place. 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood-thirsty  race. 


"  Get  hence !  get  hence  !  there's  dwarfish  Hildebrand, 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land  : 
Then  there 's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  grey  hairs — Alas,  me  !  flit; 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away."—"  Ah,  gossip  dear, 
We  're  safe  enough ;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 
And  tell  me  how—" — "  Good  Saints  !  not  here  !  not  here  ' 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier  !" 

XIII. 

He  follow'd  through  a  lowly,  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume  ; 
And  as  she  mutter'd,  "  Well-a-well-a-day  !" 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room,* 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he ; 
"  Oh,  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 


"  St.  Agnes  !     Ah  !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve- 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holidays  ; 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
And  be  the  liege  lord  of  all  elves  and  fays, 
To  venture  so :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  ! — St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's  help  !  my  lady  fair  the  conjuror  plays 
This  very  night :  good  angels  her  deceive  ! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile ;  I  've  mickle  time  to  grieve 

xv. 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone, 


KEATS.  237 


Who  keepeth  clos'd  a  wondrous  riddle-book, 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook ; 
But  soon  his  eyes  grow  brilliant,  when  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose  ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold,7 
Jlnd  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 


Sudden  a  thought  came,  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot ;  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start. 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art; 
Sweet  lady !  let  her  pray,  and  sleep  and  dream, 
Alone  with  her  good  angels  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go  !  go  !     I  deem 
Thou  canst  not,  surely,  be  the  same  that  thou  dost  seem. 


"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints,  I  swear  !" 
Quoth  Porphyio;  "  Oh,  may  I  ne'er  find  grace, 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face  ! 
Good  Angela,  believe  me,  by  these  tears, 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake  with  horrid  shout  my  foemen's  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd  than  wolves  and  oears  " 


"  Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing, 
Whose  passing  bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll ; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening, 
Were  never  miss'd  ?"     Thus  plaining,  doth  she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro, 
So  woful  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  or  weal  or  wo  : 


Which  was  to  lead  him  in  close  secrecy 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied. 


238  KEATS. 


And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 
Wliile  legion'' d  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  demon  all  the  monstrous  debt.8 


"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  dame  ; 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there, 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night ;  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see  :  no  time  to  spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare, 
On  such  a  catering,  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience  ;  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while  ;  ah  !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed ; 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead  !" 


So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear ; 
The  lover's  endless  minute  slowly  pass'd, 
The  dame  return'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her,  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last 
Through  many  a  dusk  y  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hush'd  and  chaste, 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleas'd  amain  : 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain 


Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware  ; 
With  silver  taper-light,  and  pious  care 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed  ; 
She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  fray'd  and  fled. 

XXIII. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in; 
Its  little  smoke  in  pallid  moonshine  died :  9 
She  clos'd  the  door,  she  panteth  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide  ; 
Nor  utter'd  syllable,  or  "  Wo  betide!" 
But  to  her  heart  her  heart  was  voluble, 


KEATS.  241 


Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side  : 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die  heart-stifled  in  her  dell. 


A  casement  high  and  triple-arch? d  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes. 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep  damask' d  wings  ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blusKd  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings.10 

xxv. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon : 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory  like  a  saint ; 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings  for  heaven: — Porphyro  grew  faint — u 
She  knelt  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 


Anon  his  heart  revives  :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one  ;12 
Loosens  her  fragrant  boddice  ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees : 
Half  hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-iveed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees 
In  fancy  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 


Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  smoothed  limbs,  and  soul,  fatigued  away, 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow  day  ; 
Blissfully  haven d  both  from  joy  and  pain ; 
Clasp'  d  like  a  missal,  where  swart  Paynims  pray  ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again.1* 


24  0  KEATS. 


Stol'n  to  this  paradise  and  so  entranc'd, 
Porphyro  gaz'd  upon  her  empty  dress, 
And  listen'd  to  h.er  breathing  vf  it  chanc'd 
To  wake  unto  a  slumb'rous  tenderness : 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 
And  breath'd  himself;  then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wild  wilderness, 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet  silent  stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where  lo  !  how  fast  she  slept. 

Then,  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim  silver  twilight, — soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half-anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet : — 
0,  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boist'rous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone : — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone 

XXX. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth  and  lavender'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd, 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
Jlnd  lucent  syrups  tinct  with  cinnamon  :14 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez  ;  and  spiced  dainties  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedafd  Lebanon. 


These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver ;  sumptuously  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. 
"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake  ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite. 
Open  thine  eyes  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache. 


Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 


KEATS.  241 


By  the  dusk  curtains ; — 'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream  : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam  ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies ; 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes ; 
So  mus'd  awhile,  entoiPd  in  woofed  fantasies 

XXXIII. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  call'd,  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy:" 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody; — 
Wherewith  disturb'd  she  utter'd  a  soft  moan : 
He  ceas'd — she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth  sculptured  stone 

XXXIV. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep  ; 
There  was  a  painful  change  that  nigh  expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream,  so  pure  and  deep, 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  dreamingly 

XXXV. 

"  Ah  Porphyro  !"  said  she,  "  but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  a  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow  ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear  ; 
How  chang'd  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear  !— 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro', 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear; 
Oh  !  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  wo, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  love,  I  know  not  where  to  go  " 


Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion' d  far1* 
At  these  voluptuous  accents  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
17 


242  KEATS. 

Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose  • 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odors  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet.     Meantime  the  frost  wind  blows 
Like  love's  alarum,  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window  panes  :  St.  Agnes'   moon  hath  set. 


'T  is  dark ;  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet : 
"  This  is  no  dream  ;  my  bride,  my  Madeline  !" 
'Tis  dark  :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat. 
"  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !  and  wo  is  mine  ; 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  rave  and  pine ; 
Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  ! 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing ; — 
A  dove,  forlorn  and  lost,  with  sick  unpruned  wing.' 


"  My  Madeline,  sweet  dreamer  !  lovely  bride  ! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shap'd,  and  vermeil-dyed  ? !(* 
Ah  !  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest, 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest — 
A  famish'd  pilgrim,  saved  by  miracle : 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest, 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 


"  Hark  !  't  is  an  elfin  storm  from  faery  land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed. 
Arise, — arise  ! — the  morning  is  at  hand  ; 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed; 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to. hear,  nor  eyes  to  see, — 
Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead  : 
Awake  !  arise  !  my  love,  and  fearless  be ; 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 


She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps  with  ready  spears. 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found,— 


KEATS.  243 


In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound 
Achain-droop'd  lamp  was  nickering  by  each  door; 
The  arras,  rife  with  horseman,  hawk  and  hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  winds'  uproar  ; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor.11 

XLI. 

They  glide  like  phantoms  into  the  wide  hall ; 
Like  phantoms  to  the  inner  porch  they  glide, 
Where  lay  the  porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side  ; 
The  watchful  blood-hound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide, 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  : 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  foot-worn  stones  : 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 


And  they  are  gone  ;  ay,  ages  long  ago, 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  wo, 
And  all  his  warrior  guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  benightmared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  deform : 
The  beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 

i  "  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes." — St.  Agnes  was  a  Roman  virgin, 
who  suffered  martyrdom-  in  the  reign  of  Dioclesian.  Her 
parents,  a  few  days  after  her  decease,  are  said  to  have  had  a 
vision  of  her,  surrounded  by  angels  and  attended  by  a  white 
lamb,  which  afterwards  became  sacred  to  her.  In  the  Catholic 
Church,  formerly,  the  nuns  used  to  bring  a  couple  of  lambs  to 
her  altar  during  mass.  The  superstition  is  (for  I  believe  it  is 
still  to  be  found),  that,  by  taking  certain  measures  of  divination, 
damsels  may  get  a  sight  of  their  future  husbands  in  a  dream. 
The  ordinary  process  seems  to  have  been  by  fasting.  Aubrey 
(as  quoted  in  "Brand's  Popular  Antiquities")  mentions  another, 
which  is,  to  take  a  row  of  pins,  and  pull  them  out  one  by  one, 
saying  a  Paternoster  ;  after  which,  upon  going  to  bed,  the  dream 
is  sure  to  ensue.     Brand  quotes  Ben  Jonson : — 


244  KEATS. 


And  on  sweet  St.  Agnes'  night, 
Pleas'd  you  with  the  promis'd  sight, 
Some  of  husbands,  some  of  lovers, 
Which  an  empty  dream  discovers. 

2"  The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold." — Could  he  have  se- 
lected an  image  more  warm  and  comfortable  in  itself,  and, 
therefore,  better  contradicted  by  the  season  1  We  feel  the 
plump,  feathery  bird,  in  his  nook,  shivering  in  spite  of  his  natu- 
ral household  warmth,  and  staring  out  at  the  strange  weather. 
The  hare  cringing  through  the  chill  grass  is  very  piteous,  and 
the  "  silent  flock"  very  patient;  and  how  quiet  and  gentle,  as 
well  as  wintry,  are  all  these  circumstances,  and  fit  to  open  a 
quiet  and  gentle  poem !  The  breath  of  the  pilgrim,  likened  to 
"  pious  incense,"  completes  them,  and  is  a  simile  in  admirable 
"  keeping,"  as  the  painters  call  it;  that  is  to  say,  is  thoroughly 
harmonious  with  itself  and  all  that  is  going  on.  The  breath  of 
the  pilgrim  is  visible,  so  is  that  of  a  censer  ;  the  censer,  after  its 
fashion,  may  be  said  to  pray ;  and  its  breath,  like  the  pilgrim's, 
ascends  to  heaven.  Young  students  of  poetry  may,  in  this  image 
alone,  see  what  imagination  is,  under  one  of  its  most  poetical  forms, 
and  how  thoroughly  it  "tells."  There  is  no  part  of  it  unfitting. 
It  is  not  applicable  in  one  point,  and  the  reverse  in  another. 

3  "Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture"  &c — What  a  complete  feel- 
ing of  winter-time  is  in  this  stanza,  together  with  an  intimation 
of  those  Catholic  elegances,  of  which  we  are  to  have  more  in 
the  poem  ! 

4  "  To  think  how  they  may  ache,"  &c The  germ  of  the  thought, 

or  something  like  it,  is  in  Dante,  where  he  speaks  of  the  figures 
that  perform  the  part  of  sustaining  columns  in  architecture.  Keats 
had  read  Dante  in  Mr.  Cary's  translation,  for  which  he  had  a 
great  respect.  He  began  to  read  him  afterwards  in  Italian, 
which  language  he  was  mastering  with  surprising  quickness. 
A  friend  of  ours  has  a  copy  of  Ariosto  containing  admiring 
marks  of  his  pen.  But  the  same  thought  may  have  struck  one 
poet  as  well  as  another.  Perhaps  there  are  few  that  have  not 
felt  something  like  it  on  seeing  the  figures  upon  tombs.  Here, 
however,  for  the  first  time,  we  believe,  in  English  poetry,  it  is 
expressed,  and  with  what  feeling  and  elegance !      Most  wintry 


KEATS.  245 


as  well  as  penitential  is  the  word  "  aching  "  in  "  icy  hoods  and 
mails  ;"  and  most  felicitous  the  introduction  of  the  Catholic  idea 
in  the  word  "purgatorial."  The  very  color  of  the  rails  is  made 
to  assume  a  meaning,  and  to  shadow  forth  the  gloom  of  the 
punishment — 

Imprisoned  in  black  purgatorial  rails. 

s  "  Flattered  to  tears." — This  "  flattered  "  is  exquisite.  A  true 
poet  is  by  nature  a  metaphysician ;  far  greater  in  general  than 
metaphysicians  professed.  He  feels  instinctively  what  the  others 
get  at  by  long  searching.  In  this  word  "  flattered  "  is  ihe  whole 
theory  of  the  secret  of  tears ;  which  are  the  tributes,  more  or 
less  worthy,  of  self-pity  to  self-love.  Whenever  we  shed  tears, 
we  take  pity  on  ourselves  ;  and  we  feel,  if  we  do  not  consciously 
say  so,  that  we  deserve  to  have  the  pity  taken.  In  many  cases, 
the  pity  is  just,  and  the  self-love  not  to  be  construed  unhand- 
somely. In  many  others  it  is  the  reverse  ;  and  this  is  the  reason 
why  selfish  people  are  so  often  found  among  the  tear-shedders, 
and  why  they  seem  never  to  shed  them  for  others.  They  ima- 
gine themselves  in  the  situation  of  others,  as  indeed  the  most 
generous  must,  before  they  can  sympathize  ;  but  the  generous 
console  as  well  as  weep.  Selfish  tears  are  niggardly  of  every, 
thing  but  themselves. 

"  Flattered  to  tears."  Yes,  the  poor  old  man  was  moved,  by 
the  sweet  music,  to  think  that  so  sweet  a  thins;  was  intended  for 
his  comfort,  as  well  as  for  others.  He  felt  that  the  mysterious 
kindness  of  Heaven  did  not  omit  even  his  poor,  old,  sorry  case, 
in  its  numerous  workings  and  visitations ;  and,  as  he  wished 
to  live  longer,  he  began  to  think  that  his  wish  was  to  be  attended 
to.  He  had  begun  to  think  how  much  he  had  suffered — how 
much  he  had  suffered  wrongly  and  mysteriously — and  how 
much  better  a  man  he  was,  with  all  his  sins,  than  fate  seemed 
to  have  taken  him  for.  Hence  he  found  himself  deserving  of 
tears  and  self-pity,  and  he  shed  them,  and  felt  soothed  by  his 
poor,  old,  loving  self.  Not  undeservedly  either ;  for  he  was 
a  painstaking  pilgrim,  aged,  patient,  and  humble,  and  willingly 
suffered  cold  and  toil  for  the  sake  of  something  better  than  he 


246  KEATS. 


could  otherwise  deserve  ;  and  so  the  pity  is  not  exclusively  on 
his  own  side  :  we  pity  him,  too,  and  would  fain  see  him  out  of 
that  cold  chapel,  gathered  into  a  warmer  place  than  the  grave. 
But  it  was  not  to  be.  We  must  therefore  console  ourselves  in 
knowing,  that  this  icy  endurance  of  his  was  the  last,  and  that  he 
soon  found  himself  at  the  sunny  gate  of  heaven. 

6  "  A  little  moonlight  room." — The  poet  does  not  make  his  "  little 
moonlight  room"  comfortable,  observe.  The  high  taste  of  the 
exordium  is  kept  up.  All  is  still  wintry.  There  is  to  be  no  com- 
fort in  the  poem,  but  what  is  given  by  love.  All  else  may  be  left 
to  the  cold  walls. 

7 "  Tears." — He  almost  shed  tears  of  sympathy,  to  think  how 
his  treasure  is  exposed  to  the  cold ;  and  of  delight  and  pride, 
to  think  of  her  sleeping  beauty,  and  her  love  for  himself. 
This  passage,  "  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old,"  is  in  the  high- 
est imaginative  taste,  fusing  together  the  imaginative  and  the 
spiritual,  the  remote  and  the  near.  Madeline  is  asleep  in  her 
bed  ;  but  she  is  also  asleep  in  accordance  with  the  legends  of  the 
season  :  and  therefore  the  bed  becomes  their  lap  as  well  as  sleep's. 
The  poet  does  not  critically  think  of  all  this  ;  he  feels  it  :  and 
thus  should  other  young  poets  draw  upon  the  prominent  points  of 
their  feelings  upon  a  subject,  sucking  the  essence  out  of  them 
into  analogous  words,  instead  of  beating  about  the  bush  for 
thoughts,  and,  perhaps,  getting  clever  ones,  but  not  thoroughly 
pertinent,  not  wanted,  not  the  best.  Such,  at  least,  is  the  diffe- 
rence between  the  truest  poetry  and  the  degrees  beneath  it. 

8  Si?ice  Merlin  paid  his  demon  all  the  monstrous  debt. 

What  he  means  by  Merlin's  "monstrous  debt,"  I  cannot  say. 
Merlin,  the  famous  enchanter,  obtained  King  Arthur  his  inte;- 
view  with  the  fair  logerne  ;  but  though  the  son  of  a  devil,  and 
conversant  with  the  race,  I  am  aware  of  no  debt  that  he  owed 
them.  Did  Keats  suppose  that  he  had  sold  himself,  like  "  Faus- 
tus?" 

9  Its  little  smoke  in  pallid  moonshine  died. 
This  is  a  verse  in  .he  taste  of  Chaucer,  full  of  minute  grace  and 


KEATS.  247 


truth.  The  smoke  of  the  wax-taper  seems  almost  as  ethereal  and 
fair  as  the  moonlight,  and  both  suit  each  other  and  the  heroine. 
But  what  a  lovely  line  is  the  seventh  about  the  heart, 

Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side  ! 

And  the  nightingale  !  how  touching  the  simile  !  the  heart  a 
"  tongueless  nightingale,"  dying  in  the  bed  of  the  bosom. 
What  thorough  sweetness,  and  perfection  of  lovely  imagery ! 
How  one  delicacy  is  heaped  upon  another  !  But  for  a  burst  of 
richness,  noiseless,  colored,  suddenly  enriching  the  moonlight, 
as  if  a  door  of  heaven  were  opened,  read  the  stanza  that  fol- 
lows. 

10  A  shielded  scutcheon  blusK d  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings. 

Could  all  the  pomp  and  graces  of  aristocracy,  with  Titian's 
and  Raphael's  aid  to  boot,  go  beyond  the  rich  religion  of  this 
picture,  with  its  "  twilight  saints,"  and  its  scutcheons,  "  blushing 
with  the  blood  of  queens  ?" 

""  Save  wings  for  heaven."— The  lovely  and  innocent  creature, 
thus  praying  under  the  gorgeous  painted  window,  completes  the 
exceeding  and  unique  beauty  of  this  picture, — one  that  will  for 
ever  stand  by  itself  in  poetry,  as  an  addition  to  the  stock.  It 
would  have  struck  a  glow  on  the  face  of  Shakspeare  himself. 
He  might  have  put  Imogen  or  Ophelia  under  such  a  shrine. 
How  proper  as  well  as  pretty  the  heraldic  term  gules,  consider- 
ing the  occasion.  "  Red"  would  not  have  been  a  fiftieth  part 
as  good.  And  with  what  elegant  luxury  he  touches  the  "  silver 
cross"  with  "  amethyst,"  and  the  fair  human  hand  with  "  rose- 
color,"  the  kin  of  their  carnation  !  The  lover's  growing  "  faint" 
is  one  of  the  few  inequalities  which  are  to  be  found  in  the  latter 
productions  of  this  great  but  young  and  over-sensitive  poet.  He 
had,  at  the  time  of  his  writing  this,  the  seeds  of  a  mortal  illness 
in  him,  and  he  doubtless  wrote  as  he  had  felt,  for  he  was  also 
deeply  in  love  ;  and  extreme  sensibility  struggled  in  him  with 
a  great  understanding. 

■2  "  Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels." — How  true  and  cordial  the 
warmed  jewels,  and  what  matter  of  fact  also,  made  elegant,  in 


24S  KEATS. 

the  rustling  downward  of  the  attire ;  and  the  mixture  of  dress 
and  undress,  and  of  the  dishevelled  hair,  likened  to  a  "  mermaid 
in  sea-weed  !"  But  the  next  stanza  is  perhaps  the  most  ex- 
quisite in  the  poem." 

"  "  As  though  a  rose  had  shut." — Can  the  beautiful  go  beyond 

this  ?  I  never  saw  it.  And  how  the  imagery  rises  !  flown  like 
a  thought — blissfully  haven? d — clasp'd  like  a  missal  in  a  land  of 
Pagans  :  that  is  to  say,  where  Christian  prayer-books  must  not 
be  seen,  and  are,  therefore,  doubly  cherished  for  the  danger. 
And  then,  although  nothing  can  surpass  the  preciousness  of  this 
idea,  is  the  idea  of  the  beautiful,  crowning  all — 

Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

Thus  it  is  that  poetry,  in  its  intense  sympathy  with  creation, 
may  be  said  to  create  anew,  rendering  its  words  more  impres- 
sive than  the  objects  they  speak  of,  and  individually  more  last- 
ing ;  the  spiritual  perpetuity  putting  them  on  a  level  (not  to 
speak  it  profanely)  with  the  fugitive  compound. 

14  "  Lucent  syrups  tinct  with  cinnamon." — Here  is  delicate  modu- 
lation, and  super-refined  epicurean  nicety  ! 

Lucent  syrups  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 

make  us  read  the   line  delicately,  and  at  the  tip-end,  as  it  were, 

of  one's  tongue. 

15  "  Beyond  a  mortal  man." — Madeline  is  half  awake,  and  Por- 

phyro  reassures  her,  with  loving,  kind  looks,  and  an  affectionate 

embrace. 

16 "  Heart-shaped  and  vermeil-dyed." — With  what    a  pretty  wilful 

conceit  the  costume  of  the  poem  is  kept  up  in  this  line  about  the 
shield  !  The  poet  knew  when  to  introduce  apparent  trifles  for- 
bidden to  those  who  are  void  of  real  passion,  and  who,  feeling 
nothing  intensely,  can  intensify  nothing. 

17 "  Carpets  rose." — This  is  a  slip  of  the  memory,  for  there  were 
hardly  carpets  in  those  days.  But  the  truth  of  the  painting 
makes  amends,  as  in  the  unchronological  pictures  of  old  masters. 


KEATS.  249 


LONELY  SOUNDS. 

Undescribed  sounds 
That  come  a-swooning  over  hollow  grounds, 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors. 


^wwwvv-'^^^ 


ORION. 


At  this,  with  madden'd  stare, 
And  lifted  hands,  and  trembling  lips  he  stood, 
Like  old  Deucalion  mountain'd  o'er  the  flood, 
Or  blind  Orion  hungry  for  the  morn. 


-''N'V^'l/WWl^^^^^ 


CIRCE  AND  HER  VICTIMS. 

Fierce,  wan, 
And  tyrannizing  was  the  lady's  look, 
As  over  them  a  gnarled  staff  she  shook. 
Ofttimes  upon  the  sudden  she  laugh' d  out, 
And  from  a  basket  emptied  to  the  rout 
Clusters  of  grapes,  the  which  they  raven'd  quick 
And  roar'd  for  more,  with  many  a  hungry  lick 
About  their  shaggy  jaws.     Avenging,  slow, 
Anon  she  took  a  branch  of  misletoe, 
And  emptied  on  't  a  black  dull-gurgling  phial : 
Groan' d  one  and  all,  as  if  some  piercing  trial 
Were  sharpening  for  their  pitiable  bones. 
She  lifted  up  the  charm :  appealing  groans 
From  their  poor  breasts  went  suing  to  her  ear 
In  vain  :  remorseless  as  an  infanfs  bier, 
She  whisk'd  against  their  eyes  the  sooty  oil ; 
Whereat  was  heard  a  noise  of  painful  toil, 
Increasing  gradual  to  a  tempest  rage, 
Shrieks,  yells,  and  groans,  of  torture  pilgrimage. 


250  KEATS. 


A  BETTER  ENCHANTRESS  IMPRISONED  IN  THE  SHAPE 

OF  A  SERPENT. 

She  was  a  gordian  shape  of  dazzling  hue, 

Vermilion-spotted,  golden,  green,  and  blue, 

Striped  like  a  zebra,  speckled  like  a  pard, 

Eyed  like  a  peacock,  and  all  crimson-barf  d, 

And  full  of  silver  moons,  that  as  she  breath' d 

Dissolv'd  or  brighter  shone,  or  interwreath'd 

Their  lustres  with  the  gloomier  tapestries. 

So,  rainbow-sided,  full  of  miseries, 

See  seem'd,  at  once,  some  penanc'd  lady  elf, 

Some  demon's  mistress,  or  the  demon's  self. 

Upon  her  crest  she  wore  a  wannish  fire 

Sprinkled  with  stars,  like  Ariadne's  tiar ; 

Her  head  was  serpent;  but  ah,  bitter  sweet! 

She  had  a  woman's  mouth,  with  all  its  pearls  complete 


SATURN  DETHRONED. 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale, 

Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn, 

Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve's  one  star, 

Sat  grey-haired  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, 

Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair; 

Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head, 

Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there, 

Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 

Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd  grass, 

But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest. 

A  stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deaden'd  more 

By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 

Spreading  a  shade :  the  Naiad,  'mid  her  reeds, 

Press'd  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the  margin  sand  large  footmarks  went, 

Nor  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had  stray'd, 

And  slept  there  since.     Upon  the  sodden  ground 

His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 

Unsceptred ;  and  his  realmless  eyes  were  closed. 


KEATS.  •  251 


THE  VOICE  OF  A  MELANCHOLY  GODDESS  SPEAKING 

TO  SATURN. 

As  when  upon  a  tranced  summer-night 
Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods, 
Tall  oaks,  branch- charmed  by  the  earnest  stars, 
Dream,  and  so  dream,  all  night  without  a  stir, 
Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust, 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  off, 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave : 
So  came  these  words,  and  went. 


A  FALLEN  GOD. 

The  bright  Titan,  frenzied  with  new  woes, 

Unus'd  to  bend,  by  hard  compulsion,  bent 

His  spirit  to  the  sorrow  of  the  time  ; 

And  all  along  a  dismal  rack  of  clouds, 

Upon  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night, 

He  stretch' d  himself,  in  grief  and  radiance  faint. 


OTHER  TITANS  FALLEN. 

Scarce  images  of  life,  one  here,  one  there, 
Lay  vast  and  edgeways  ;  like  a  dismal  cirque 
Of  Druid  stones,  upon  a  forlorn  moor, 
When  the  chill  rain  begins  at  shut  of  eve 
In  dull  JVovember,  and  their  chancel  vault, 
The  heaven  itself,  is  blinded  throughout  night 


252  KEATS. 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE.* 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk. 
'T  is  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, 

That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beeches  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

0  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green, 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth  ! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit,  and  hear  each  other  groan  ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  grey  hairs ; 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies , 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs ; 
Where  beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 

But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards ; 

Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays  ; 


KEATS.  253 


But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways. 

/  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

JVorwhat  soft  incense  hangs  vpon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild  ; 
White-hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine  ; 
Fast-fading  violets,  cover'd  up  in  leaves  ; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen ;  and,  for  many  a  time, 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
CalVd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstacy  ! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird.' 

J\ro  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  : 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown ; 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn; 
The  same  that  ofttimes  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn.19 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self  ! 
Adieu  !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  fam'd  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu!  adieu!  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 

Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill  side  ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades  ? 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking-dream  ! 

Fled  is  that  music  ?    Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 


254  KEATS. 

18  "  Ode  to  a  Nightingale.'" — This  poem  was  written  in  a  house 
at  the  foot  of  Highgate  Hill,  on  the  border  of  the  fields  looking 
towards  Hampstead.  The  poet  had  then  his  mortal  illness  upon 
him,  and  knew  it.     Never  was  the  voice  of  death  sweeter. 

19  "  Charm 'd  magic  casements,"  &c — This  beats  Claude's  En- 
chanted Castle,  and  the  story  of  King  Beder  in  the  Arabian 
Nights.  You  do  not  know  what  the  house  is,  or  where,  nor  who 
♦he  bird.  Perhaps  a  king  himself.  But  you  see  the  window, 
open  on  the  perilous  sea,  and  hear  the  voice  from  out  the  trees 
in  which  it  is  nested,  sending  its  warble  over  the  foam.  The 
whole  is  at  once  vague  and  particular,  full  of  mysterious  life. 
You  see  nobody,  though  something  is  heard ;  and  you  know  not 
what  of  beauty  or  wickedness  is  to  come  over  that  sea.  Perhaps 
it  was  suggested  by  some  fairy  tale.  I  remember  nothing  of  it 
in  the  drearn-like  wildness  of  things  in  Palmerin  of  England,  a 
book  which  is  full  of  color  and  home  landscapes,  ending  with  a 
noble  and  affecting  scene  of  war  ;  and  of  which  Keats  was  very 
fond. 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER. 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold, 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been, 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told, 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne  ; 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene, 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold : 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies, 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ; 
Or  like  stout  Cortex,  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  star'd  at  the  Pacific20 — and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien.21 

80  "  He  stared  at  the  Pacific,"  &c. — «  Stared  "  has   been  thought 
by  some  too  violent,  but  it  is  precisely  the  word  required  by  the 


KEATS.  255 


occasion.  The  Spaniard  was  too  original  and  ardent  a  man 
either  to  look,  or  to  affect  to  look,  coldly  superior  to  it.  His 
"  eagle  eyes  "  are.  from  life,  as  may  be  seen  by  Titian's  por- 
trait of  him. 

The  public  are  indebted  to  Mr.  Charles  Knight  for  a  cheap 
reprint  of  Homer  and  Chapman. 

21  "  Silent,  upon  apeak  in  Darien." — A  most  fit  line  to  conclude 
our  volume.  We  leave  the  reader  standing  upon  it,  with  all  the 
illimitable  world  of  thought  and  feeling  before  him,  to  which  his 
imagination  will  have  been  brought,  while  journeying  through 
these  "  realms  of  gold." 


THE     END. 


J55    Broadway,    New    York.  142  Strand,   London 

Of  lat*  firm  of  Wiley  8c  Putnam, 


New  Works  in  Press, 

Or    recently    published,  by 

GEORGE    P.    PUTNAM, 

155  Broadway,  New  York. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM  has  the  pleasure  of  announcing  that,  agreeably  to  his  contract  with  the 
distinguished  author,  he  has  now  in  the  course  of  publication 

A  new,  uniform,  and  complete  edition 

OF   THE 

Works    of    Washington    Irving, 

Revised   and   enlarged    by   the   Author, 

In  Twelve  Elegant  Duodecimo  Volumes, 
Beautifully  printed  with  new  type,  and  on  superior  paper,  made  expressly  for  the  purpose. 

The  first  volume  of  the  Series  will  be 

The    Sketch -Book, 

complete  in  one  volume, 

which  will  be  ready  on  the  first  day  of  September. 

Knickerbocker's    History    of    New    York, 

with  revisions  and   copious   additions, 

will  be  published  on  the  1st  of  October. 

The    Life    and   Voyages  of  Columbus, 

Vol.  I.  on  the  1st  of  November, 

and  the  succeeding  volumes  will  be  issued  on  the  first  day  of  each  month  until  com- 
pleted ; — as  follows : 

The  Sketch-Book,  in  one  volume.         The    Crayon    Miscellany,  in   one 
Knickerbocker's  New   York,  in  one)         vol.  —  Abbotsford,     Newstead, 

volume.  )  The  Prairies,  8fc. 

Tales  of  a  Traveller,  in  one  volume.}  Life   and    Voyages  of   Columbus, 
Bracebridge  Hall,  in  one  volume.      (  and   The  Companions  of   Co- 

The  Conquest  of  Grenada,  in  one  \  lumbus,  2  vols. 

volume.  )  Adventures  of  Captain  Bonneville, 

The  Alhambra,  in  one  volume.  )  one  vol. 

The  Spanish  Legends,  in  one  vol.     (  Astoria,  one  volume. 

The    Illustrated    Sketch -Book. 

In  October  will  be  published, 

The    Sketch-Book. 
By    Washington    Irving. 

One  volume,  square  octavo. 
Illustrated  with  a  series  of  highly-finished  Engravings  on  wood,  from  Designs  by  Darley 
and  others,  engraved  in  the  best  style  by  Childs,  Herrick,  &c.  This  edition  will  be  printed 
on  paper  of  the  finest  quality,  sitnilar  in  size  and  style  to  the  new  edition  of  "  Ilalleck's 
Poems."  It  is  intended  that  the  illustrations  shall  be  superior  to  any  engravings  on  wood 
yet  produced  in  this  country,  and  that  the  mechanical  execution  of  the  volume,  altogether, 
shall  be  worthy  of  the  author's  reputation.  It  will  form  an  elegant  and  appropriate  gift- 
book  for  all  seasons. 


New   Works  published  by — 


The    Illustrated    Knickerbocker, 

With  a  series  of  Original  Designs,  in  one  vol.,  octavo,  is  also  in  preparation. 

Mr.  Putnam  has  also  the  honor  to  announce  that  he  will  publish  at  intervals  (in  con- 
nexion, and  uniform  wi*h  the  other  collected  writings;, 

Mr.    I  r  v  i  n  g '  s    New   Works, 

now  nearly  ready  for  the  press:  including 

The    Life    of    Mohammed, 

The    Life    of    Washington, 

New  volumes  of  Miscellanies,  Biographies,  &c. 

*+*  This  being  the  first  ui  iform  ami  complete  edition  of  Mr.  Irving's  works,  either  in  this 
country  or  in  Europe,  '-he  publisher  confidently  believes  that  the  undertaking  will  meet 
with  a  prompt  and  cordial  response  To  say  this,  is  perhaps  superfluous  and  impertinent; 
for  ii  is  H  ti  U.ISDJ  that  no  American  bookcase  (not  to  say  library)  can  be  well  filled  without 
the  works  of  VVashing'on  Irving;  while  the  English  language  itself  comprises  no  purer 
models  of  composition. 

G.  P.  Putnam  hits  also  made  arrangements  for  the  early  commencement  of  new  works 
or  new  editions  of  the  works  of 

Miss  C.  M.  Sedgewick,  ,  Mary  Howitt, 

Charles  Fenno  Hoffman,  \  W  M   Thackeray, 

George  H    Calvert,  ( -  Thoff.  Hood, 

J.  Bayard  Taylor,  I  Leigh  Hunt, 

S.   Wells  Williams,  {  Thomas  Carlyle, 

A.  J.  Downing,  X  R   Monckton  Milnes., 

Prof  .3.    Gray,  \  Mrs.  Jameson, 

Mrs   E    Oaltes  Smith,  ]  Charles  Lamb, 

Mrs.  C.  M.  Kirkland,  Elliot  Warburton 

The  following  new  works  are  now  ready,  or  will  be  published  this  season  ; 

L 

Sophisms    of    the    Protective    Policy, 

Translated  from  the  French  of  F.  Bastiat.     With  an  introduction  by  Francis  Lieber,  LL.I> 
Prolessor  in  South  Carolina  College,  Editor  of  the  Encyclopaedia  Americana,  &.C.     12iho. 

II. 

Grecian     and     Roman     Mythology: 

With  original  illustrations.  Adapted  for  the  use  of  Universities  and  High  Schools,  and  for 
popular  reading.  IJy  M  A.  Dwight.  With  an  introduction  by  Tayler  Lewis,  Professor  of 
Greek,  University  ol  JN'ew  York.     !2iuo.     (')n  1st  September) 

Also  :•  fine  edition  in  octavo,  with  illustrations. 

*„*  This  work  has  lieen  prepared  with  great  care,  illustrated  with  20  effective  outline^ 
drawings,  and  is  designed  to  treat  the  subjict  in  an  original,  comprehensive,  and  unex- 
ceptionable tn  inner,  so  as  to  fi.l  the  place  as  a  text  book  which  is  yet  unsupplied  ;  while 
rtwiHalsobe  an  attractive  and  readable  table  book  for  general  use  It  will  be  at  once 
introduced  as  a  text  book  in  the  University  of  New  York  and  other  colleges  and  schools. 

III. 

Eureka:     a     Prose     Poem. 

Or  the  Physical  and  Metaphysical  Universe. 
By  Edgar  A.  Poe,  Esq.      Handsomely    printed.      12mo.      Cloth 


— G.  P.  Putnam,   155  Broadway,  New  York.  3 

IV. 

$!)£  Sook  of   Paintrj   Ulnnces. 

***This  new  and  unique  volume,  superbly  illuminated  by  M.plesnn,  nnd  comprising 
original  articles  by  di  tinguished  writers,  will  lie  the  most  elegant  and  recherche  book  of 
the  kind  ever  produced  in  this  country.     It  will   he  readv  in  October 

A  new  and  superior  edit;on  of  the  PEAKLS  OF  AMERICAN  POETRY  will  also  be 
published  this  season. 

V. 

Oriental    Life    Illustrated. 

Being  a  new  edition  of  Eothen,  or  Traces  of  Travel  in  the  East.     With  fine  illustrations 

on  Steel. 

VI. 

Dr.    Klipstein's    Anglo-Saxon  Course 

of    Study. 

In  uniform  12mo.  volumes, 
i. 

A  Grammar  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  Language.  By  Louis  F.  Klipstein,  AA.  LL.M.  and 
PH.D..  of  the  University  ot  Giessen. 

*=fc*Thi<  work  recommends  itself  particularly  to  the  attention  of  every  American 
student  who  "glories  in  his  A  glo-Saxon  descent"'  or  Teutonic  lineage,  as  well  as  of  all 
who  desire  an  acquaintance  with  a  1  ingu  'ge  which  lies  as  the  found  ition  of  the  English, 
and  throws  a  light  upon  its  i.le  nents  and  structure,  derivable  from  no  other  source  Of 
the  imp  iriance  and  interesting  n  aure  of  the  study  there  can  be  no  doubt,  and  we  agree 
with  those  who  think  th  it  the  time  is  coming  when  it  will  be  considered  "  utterly  disgrace- 
ful for  any  well  bred  Rnglishm  in  or  Americ  n  "  to  have  neglected  it.  With  regard  to  the 
merits  of  Dr.  Klipstein's  Grimm  ir,  we  will  only  say.  Ihi*  it  has  been  already  adopted  as 
a  text-book  in  some  of  the  leading  Institutions  of  our  country. 

[The  following  are  also  in  press.] 
it. 
Analecta  Anslo  Saxnnica,  with  an  Introductory  Ethnographical  Essay,  Copious  Notes,  Cri- 
tical and  Explanatory,  and  a  Glossary  m  which  are  shown  the  Indo-Geruianic  and  other 
Affinities  of  tne  Language.     By  the  same. 

In  this  work  appear  the  fruits  of  considerable  research,  and,  we  may  add,  learning. 
The  Ethnology  of  Europe  is  sut-ciucll  ,  but  •  leirly  illustrated,  the  Anglo-Saxon  language 
completely  a  uilysed.  revealing  the  ntmo  t  harmony  of  combination  from  its  elements,  its 
forms  and  root-  compared  with  those  i  i  kindred  di  ilects  and  cognate  tongues  its  po  ition 
in  the  Ten  ionic  f  unity  and  [ndo-Germanic  range  established,  and  thegei.ui  «e  relation  of  the 
English  toils  great  pirent  properly  set  forth  To  those  who  are  fond  of  the  comparative 
study  of  language,  the  Glossary  will  prove  an  invaluable  aid,  aput  from  its  particular 
object. 

in. 
Natale  Sancti  Gregorii  Papa? — A5lfric's  Homily  on  th?  Birth-day  of  St.  Gregory,  and  Col- 
lateral  Extr  cis  from  King   Alfred's  ver-ion  of    Ride's  Ecclesiastical   History  and  ihe 
Saxon  Chronicle,  with  a  full  rendering  into  English,  Notes  Critical  and  Explanatory, 
and  an  Index  of  Words.     By  the  same. 

IV. 

Extr  ids  from  the  Anglo  Sixin-G  ispels,  a  Portion  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  Paraphrase  of  the 
Book  of  Psalms,  and  other  Sel  ciions  of  a  Sacred  Order  in  the  oime  Lancuage,  with  a 
Translation  into  English,  and  Notes  Critic  il  and  Explanatory.     By  the  same. 

These  two  works  are  prepared  in  such  a  way  as  in  them  -elves,  with  the  aid  of  the 
Gramm  ir  to  afford  every  facility  to  the  Anglo  Saxon  Student.  ^E  trie'-  Homily  is  remarka- 
ble for  beauty  of  composition,  and  interesting  as  setting  forth  Augustine's  Mission  to  the 
"  Land  of  the  Angles." 

v. 
Tha  Hainan  Cod-pel   on    Englisc — the  Anglo-Snxon   Version  of  the   Holy  Gospels.      Edited 
by  Benj  i uiin  Thorpe,  P  S.  \      Reprinted  by  the  same.     Now  ready 

This,  the  earliest  •   E  glish  "  ver-i f  the  Four  G   spela   will  be  found  interesting  to 

the  niviqn ari  in  and  tlr-ologi  in,  a-  u ■■■  I  as  serviceable  to  the  student  in  bis  investigations 
of  the  language  The  Text,  bps-des  the  usual  but  unbroken  division,  appears,  wiih  the 
Rubrics, as  read  in  the  early  Anglican  Church. 


New   Works  published  by- 


VII. 

Study    of    Modern    Languages. 

Part  First;  French,  Italian,  Spanish,  Portuguese,  German,  and  English. 

By  L.  F.  Klipstein,  AA.  LL.M.  and  Ph.  D.    One  Vol.  Imperial  8vo.    75  cents. 

This  work,  which  is  intended  equally  for  the  simultaneous  and  the  separate  study  of  the 
languages  that  it  sets  forth,  and  which  is  adapted  as  well  for  the  native  of  Germany, 
France,  Italy,  Spain,  or  Portugal,  as  for  him  to  whom  English  is  vernacular,  in  the  acquire- 
ment of  any  one  of  the  other  tongues  besides  his  own,  will  be  found  an  acceptable  manual 
not  only  to  the  tyro,  but  to  the  more  advanced  scholar.  The  reading  portion  of  the  matter 
is  interesting,  and  the  text  in  every  case  remarkably  correct,  while  the  Elementary  Phrases, 
forms -of  Cards,  Letters,  Bills  of  Exchange,  Promissory  Notes,  Receipts,  &c,  in  the  six 
languages,  constitute  what  has  long  been  a  desideratum  from  the  American  press.  For 
the  comparative  study  of  the  Romanic  tongues  the  work  affords  unusual  facilities. 

VIII. 

Pedestrian     Tour     in    Europe. 

Views  a-Foot ;   or  Europe  seen  with  Knapsack  and  Staff*. 

By  J.  Bayard  Taylor. 

A  new  edition  with  an  additional  chapter,  and  a  sketch  of  the  author  in  pedestrian  cos- 
tume, from  a  drawing  by  T.  Buchanan  Read.     12mo.    Cloth. 

IX. 

The  Third  Edition  of 

The    Middle   Kingdom. 

A   SURVEY    OF   THE 

GEOGRAPHY,  GOVERNMENT,  EDUCATION,  SOCIAL  LIFE,  ARTS, 

RELIGION,  etc., 

Of    the     Chinese    Empire 

AND    ITS    INHABITANTS. 

With  a  New  Map  of  the  Kmpirc,  and  Illustrations,  principally  engraved  by  J.  TV.  Orr. 
BY    S.    WELLS*     WILLIAMS. 

Two  Vols.  Svo.  Half  morocco,  gilt  tops,  $3.       JVow  ready. 

"  What  personal  observation  did  not  supply  has  been  industriously  and  ably  supplied 
from  other  sources.  This  will  probably  take  the  place  of  the  previous  accounts  of  the 
Chinese  Empire,  as  more  full  and  accurate  than  they." — Evening  Post. 

"  We  are  very  greatly  mistaken,  or  the  circulation  of  these  volumes  will  raise  very 
Tmuch  the  inhabitants  of  the  Middle  Kingdom  in  the  respect  of  our  countrymen." — JV.  Y. 
Recorder. 

"We  do  not  think  the  man  is  living  who  is  better  qualified  than  Mr.  Williams  to  make 
a  book  on  China,  and  he  has  produced  a  work  which  will  be  of  standard  authority  as  refer- 
ence."— JV*.  Y.  Observer. 

"  The  work  before  us  is  full  of  the  information  required,  interspersed  with  numerous 
amusing  sketches  of  the  peculiar  manners  of  this  people.  No  one  was  more  qualified  to 
write  a  book  of  this  sort  than  the  author ;  and  all  who  read  it  will  be  highly  interested, 
and  will  learn  more  of  the  Celestials  from  it,  than  he  can  anywhere  else." — Christian 
Advocate  <$-  Journal. 

X. 

A  New   Edition  of 

Clarke's    Shakspeare    Concordance. 

A  Complete  Concordance  to  Shakspeare :  being  a  Verbal  Index  to  ALL  the  PASSAGES 
in  the  Dramatic  Works  of  the  Poet.     By  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke. 

"  Order  gave  each  thing  view." 

One  large  Vol  comprising  2560  closely  printed  columns, — (indicating  every  word  and 
passage  in  Shakspeare's  Works).     Price  $6.     Cloth. 

"The  result  of  sixteen  years  of  untiring  labor.  The  different  editions  of  Shakspeare 
have  been  carefully  collated  by  the  compiler,  and  every  possible  means  taken  to  insure 
the  correctness  of  the  work.  As  it  now  stands,  a  person  can  find  a  particular  passage  in 
Shakspeare  by  simply  remembering  one  word  of  it,  and  is  also  referred  to  the  act  and  scene 


— G.  P.  Putnam,  155  Broadway,  New  York.  5 

of  the  play  in  which  it  occurs.  As  a  mere  dictionary  of  Shakspearian  language  and 
phrases,  it  is  of  great  value  ;  hut  it  is  also  a  dictionary  of  his  thouuhts  and  imaginations. 
It  altogether  supersedes  the  volumes  of  Twiss  and  Ayscough,  and  should  be  on  every 
student's  shelves  " — Boston  Courier. 

*+*  This  extraordinary  work  is  printed  in  London  and  the  price  there  at  present  is 
j£2  5s.  Od.  or  about  $12  A  large  part  of  the  edition  having  been  purchased  for  this  market, 
it  is  furnished  here  for  the  very  low  price  of  $6,  bound  in  cloth. 

Also — By  same  Author. 

The    Book    of    Shakspeare    Proverbs. 

18mo.    75  cts. 


Dr.  Lieber' s  Poetical  Address  to  the  American  Republic. 
In  a  few  days  in  a  neat  volume, 

The   West: 

A     Metrical     Epistle. 
By    Francis    Lieber. 

%*  Dr.  Lieber,  the  distinguished  Professor  of  Political  Economy  in  South  Carolina  Col- 
lege, Author  of  •'Political  Ethics,"  &c.  has  just  sailed  for  his  native  country— Germany— 
with  the  view  of  aiding  in  the  great  cause  of  Constitutional  and  Rational  Freedom.  This 
iitlle  volume  proves  that  he  has  well  studied  that  subject  during  his  long  residence  in  this 
his  adopted  country— and  his  able  and  valuahleopiiuonson  American  Society  and  Progress, 
carry  with  them  a  peculiar  interest  at  this  time. 

NEW    AND   IMPROVED    EDITIONS 

Of  the  following  works  are  now  ready  or  will  shortly  be  published. 
Downing's  Landscape  Gardening  and  Rural  Architecture  3d  edition,  revised. 
I) owning' s  Fruit  and  Fruit  Trees  of  America.     The  second  illustrated  edition.     With. 

70  plates,  carefully  and  accurately  colored.     Royal  8vo. 
Downing' s  Cottage  Residences.     Illustrated  new  edition.     1  vol.  8vo.     (Now  ready.) 
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The  same,  with  illustrations  designed  by  Mulready.    Ele-  I 

gantly  bound,  gilt  edges. 
Lamb's  Essays  of  Elia.  i 

Warburtons  Crescent  and  the  Cross;  or  Romance  and  Realities 

of  Eastern  Travel. 
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warmly  commends  this  book.  I  new  style  and  at  lower 

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Leigh  Hunt's  Imagination  and  Fancy. 
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Peacock's  Headlong  Hall,  and  Nightmare  Abbey.  J 

MRS.    JAMESON'S    CHARACTERISTICS    OF    fVOMEN—Morn\,   Poetical,  and 

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bound  Saxony  gilt,  royal  octavo. 

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a  new  stvle  for  the  autumn  season. 


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8  Recent  Publications — 

Duer. — The  Life  of  William  Alexander,  Earl  of  Stirling,  Major- 

Genernl  in  the  Army  of  the  United  States*  during  the  Revolution  ;    with  Extracts  from 
his  Correspondence.    By  his  Grandson,  William  A.  Duer,  LL.D.    8vo.  cloth,  $1  50. 

"  It  consists  mainly  of  letters  or  extracts  written  "by  or  to  the  illustrious  Subject,  whose 
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done  to  his  memory,  but  this  injustice,  we  trust,  is  near  its  termination.  Honor  to  the 
memory  of  a  faithful  and  self-denying  Patriot." — Tribune. 

Dwight. — Grecian  and   Roman  Mythology ;   with  original  Illus- 
trations.   Adapted  for  the  Use  of  Universities  and  High  Schools,  and  for  Popular  Read- 
ing.   By  M.  A.  Dwight.    With  an  Introduction  by  Tayler  Lewis,  Professor  of  Greek, 
University  of  New  York.    12mo.  [In  September. 
Also  a  fine  edition  in  octavo,  with  Illustrations. 

***  This  work  has  been  prepared  with  great  care,  illustrated  with  twenty  effective 
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while  it  will  also  be  an  attractive  and  readable  table-book  for  general  use.  It  will  be  at 
once  introduced  as  a  text-book  in  the  University  of  New  York,  and  other  colleges  and 
schools. 

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Green. — A  Treatise  on  Diseases  of  the  Air  Passages  ;  compris- 
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— G.  P.  Putnam,  155  Broadway.  9 

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10  Recent  Publications — 

Irving. — Works  of  Washington  Irving  ;    Revised  and  Enlarged 

by  the  Author.     In  twelve  elegant  duodecimo  volumes,  beautifully  printed  with   new 
type,  and  on  superior  piper,  made  expressly  for  the  purpose,  and  bound  in  cloth. 
As  follows : — 


The  Crayon  .Miscellany,  in  one 
volume.  Abbotsford,  Newstead, 
The  Prairies,  &c. 

The  Spanish  Legends,  in  one  vol. 

The  Life  and  Voyages  of  Columbus, 
and  The  Companions  of  Colum- 
bus, in  two  volumes. 

Adventures  of  Capt.  Bonneville,  in 
one  volume. 


The  Sketch-Book,  in  one  volume. 
Knickerbocker's  3Yew  York,  in  one 

volume. 
Tales  of  a  Traveller,  in  one  vol. 
Bracebridge  Hall,  in  one  volume. 
The    Conquest  of   Grenada,   in  one 

volume. 
The  Alhambra,  in  one  volume. 
Astoria,  in  one  volume. 

(Now  publishing.) 

Irving. — The  Sketch-Book.     By  Washington  Irving.     Complete 

in  one  volume,  12mo.  cloth.     In  September.  , 

Irving. — The  Illustrated  Sketch-Book.      By  Washington  Irving. 

In  October  will  be  published,  The  Sketch-Book,  by  Washington  Irving,  one  vol.  square 
octavo,  Illustrated  with  a  series  of  highly  finished  Engravings  on  Wood,  from  Designs 
by  Darley  and  others,  engraved  in  the  best  style  by  Childs,  Herrick,  &c.  This 
edition  will  be  printed  on  paper  of  the  finest  quality,  similar  in  size  and  style  to  the  new 
edition  of  "  Halleck's  Poems."  It  is  intended  that  the  illustrations  shall  be  superior  to 
any  engravings  on  wood  yet  produced  in  this  country,  and  that  the  mechanical  execu- 
tion of  the  volume,  altogether,  shall  be  worthy  of  the  author's  reputation.  It  will  form 
an  elegant  and  appropriate  gift  book  for  all  seasons. 

Irving. — Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York.  By  Washing- 
ton Irving.  With  Revisions  and  copious  Additions.  Will  be  published  on  the  1st  of 
October. 

Irving. — The  Illustrated  Knickerbocker;  with  a  series  of  origi- 
nal Designs,  in  one  volume,  octavo,  uniform  with  the  "  Sketch-Book,"  is  also  in  prepa- 
ration. 

Irving. — The  Life  and  Voyages  of  Columbus.     By  Washington 

Irving.    Vol.  I.  on  the  1st  of  November. 
The  succeeding  volumes  will  be  issued  on  the  first  day  of  each  month  until  completed. 

Jameson. — Characteristics    of     Women.       By    Mrs.    Jameson. 

Illustrated  with  12  elegant  steel-plate  engravings.     1  large  vol.  royal  8vo.  richly  gilt. 

'■  Mrs.  Jameson's  Characteristics  of  Women  is  certainly  among  the  most  attractive  and 
charming  volumes  which  the  American  press  has  produced  this  season.  It  is  a  royal 
8vo.  volume,  of  from  301)  to  400  pages,  superbly  bound  in  Saxony  gilt  extra,  and  contains 
the  following  twelve  portraits,  executed  in  the  most  finished  style  of  the  first  artists, 
under  the  direction  of  Mr.  Charles  Heath,  of  London,  viz: — Portia,  Beatrice,  Miranda, 
Jnl>et,  Ophelia,  Imogen,  Viola,  Cleopatra,  Lady  Macbeth,  Rosalind,  Perdita,  Cordelia. 
These  portraits  illustrate  the  following  class  of  Shakspeare's  characters,  as  arranged  by 
Mrs.  Jameson  :-  - 

"  J  St.  Characters  of  Intellect. 

"2d.  Characters  of  Imajrination  avd  Fancy. 

"  '3d.  Characters  of  the  .Affections. 

"4th.   Historical  Characters. 

"They  are,  in  truth,  admirable  expositions  of  Shakspeare's  matchless  creations,  and 
form,  in  the  elegant  edition  of  the  American  publishers,  one  of  the  most  appropriate 
gifts  that  could  be  made." — Newark  Daily  Jldeertiser. 

Keats. — The    Poetical   Works  of  John   Keats.       1   vol.    12mo. 

cloth. 

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"  They  are  flushed  all  over  with  the  rich  lights  of  fancy  ;  and  so  colored  and  bestrewn 
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it  is  impossible  to  resist  the  intoxication  of  their  sweemess,  or  to  shut  our  hearts  to  the 
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(JVext  building  to  that  of  the  late  Firm), 

And  continues  the  business  of 

PUBLISHING, 

AND    THE 

IMPORTATION  OF  FOREIGN  BOOKS, 

AS  ABOVE,  AND  AT 

PUTNAM'S  AMERICAN  LITERARY  AGENCY,  142  Strand,  London 
[Established    in  1838]. 


Arrangements  have  been  made  to  secure  at  the  London  Agency  the 
services  of  an  experienced  and  competent  Bibliographer,  so  that  the  busi- 
ness of  executing  SPECIAL  ORDERS  FOR  THE  TRADE  AND  PUBLIC 
INSTITUTIONS  may  be  better  regulated,  and  all  parties  giving  such  or- 
ders, may  be  fully  satisfied  both  with  regard  to  expedition  and  economy. 

The  interests  of  Public  Institutions,  and  those  ordering  Books  in  quan- 
tities will  receive  special  attention,  while  it  is  also  intended  that  any  one 
ordering  a  single  volume  from  Europe,  may  receive  it  promptly  (if  procura- 
ble), without  disappointment  or  unnecessary  expense. 

Mr.  Putnam  believes  that  his  twelve  years'  experience  abroad  in  pur- 
chasing Books  for  the  American  market,  will  be  of  service  to  those  who 
may  favor  him  with  orders. 

%*  Correspondence  established  with  Paris,  Rome,  Leipsic,  Brus- 
sels, and  all  the  principal  cities  on  the  Continent.  All  American  Publi- 
cations on  the  best  terms,  by  the  quantity  or  singly 

N.  B. — CATALOGUES  of  extensive  collections  of  Foreign  and  Ame- 
rican Books,  on  all  subjects,  may  be  had  on  application. 


JAM  2 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

This  "book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 

^  1951 i 


APR  4    1951 i 


Form  L-9 
inm-3,'3li(T7r,2) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 


A  A   000  294  532 


PR 

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1848 

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